Recovering Sherlock
by SirienneHolmes
Summary: Sequel to "Starving Sherlock." Sherlock's recovery is haunted by the presence of the consulting criminal, Moriarty, who proves that he's far from done in his dealings with the detective. T for cursing, injuries, and blah. No slash unless you read it that way!
1. Where I Follow, You'll Go

_**Chapter 1: Where I Follow, You'll Go**_

It was late afternoon when Sherlock and John finally returned to their flat, 221B Baker Street. Sherlock was exhausted, so John practically carried him up the stairs to the flat. The tall, frightfully thin man rested his head against John's, his eyes closing, glazed from fatigue.

John gently set Sherlock into his chair and sat in his own, hurting himself from the shock and effort it had taken to get Sherlock home again. He ran a hand through his hair, and looked up, only to find his friend observing him weakly.

"Thank you for carrying me, John. I'm sorry you had to." His gaze never waivered, but John detected humility and guilt in his deep, soft voice.

"It's fine, Sherlock. You hardly weigh anything, although I don't know that you did to begin with."

Sherlock smiled, and John returned the favor. "I estimate I'm about nine stone now."

John's eyes widened. "_God_, Sherlock!"

"Yes, yes, _I_ know!" Sherlock brushed off the topic before John could talk further about it. "I'd like it, except that I feel _too_ light," he admitted thoughtfully, tilting his head back gingerly to rest against the back of the chair, inching down uneasily into a slouch. "If my goal in life is to be—_ow_!"

John jumped upon hearing his friend's exclamation of pain, and stood up rapidly as Sherlock hissed in pain, his fingers clenching at the arms of the chair until they were white from the strain. "What is it?" John asked, concerned, trying to deduce medically what was troubling his friend.

"My ribs—ow—broken," Sherlock sighed, finding a comfortable position at last, and settled down, breathing heavily. "Can you check them for me?"

"Of course." John moved to take Sherlock's jacket off, but hesitated, especially since he'd have to remove Sherlock's shirt as well. "Um…Sherlock, I—"

"Yes," Sherlock interrupted him, already knowing the question. "Do what you have to."

John nodded and took off Sherlock's jacket, feeling a bit like he was undressing a doll. Sherlock made no effort to fight him, and John thought nothing could startle him more…until he saw the blood on Sherlock's shirt. Or, at this point, the shirt on Sherlock's blood. He knew his mouth hung open—he hadn't counted on such an _extreme_ volume of blood loss—but didn't do anything about it as he stammered out a question. "Sherlock, is—"

Sherlock sighed, his head still tilted back, his long neck exposed. "A multitude of minor wounds—not important. The ribs. Please, John."

John almost rebuked Sherlock, wanting to say that _he'd_ decide what was "not important" in this case, being the doctor in the room, but he let it go and unbuttoned the shirt, tossing it aside to go on the rubbish pile straight away. As he scanned down Sherlock's chest, trying to ignore the ribs advertizing themselves against his skin and the many cuts littered there, Sherlock rasped: "Rubbish?" He pointed one long finger at the shirt.

John looked back at it, nodded. "Yeah. No use trying to clean it up with bleach."

Sherlock smiled. "Good to know."

John stopped, looked skeptically at his friend. Sherlock's eyes opened lazily, the irises flicking from side to side, reading John like an open book. "Did you just—"

"A consulting detective never stops learning," Sherlock replied. "Besides, I couldn't turn it off if I tried."

John raised an eyebrow, shook his head, smiled. "I really did miss you, Sherlock."

"_Moi aussi_," Sherlock replied, closing his eyes again. He looked more peaceful with his eyes closed, John thought. Since Sherlock was usually such a harsh and domineering individual, it was odd seeing him so…human.

John focused on Sherlock's most pressing wound. His evident malnutrition (a severe problem that vied for the title of 'most important injury' that the detective had sustained) made the examination go much smoother, and John had no problem finding the broken ribs and assessing damage.

"Well?" Sherlock asked hoarsely upon feeling John's warm hands tickling at his ribs.

"Some small contusions around the area. Nothing too horrible, though. It seems to be healing well." John straightened and stretched. "Does that diagnosis work for you?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. How are my other wounds?"

"From a glance, they don't seem fatal. Blood loss was significant. You need nutrients."

"_I_ _know that_," Sherlock snapped, but softened quickly, raising his head. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you."

John shrugged. "It's okay. You're irritable. It's a side-effect of malnutrition."

Sherlock's lips curved into a lopsided smile. "Can we have dinner, then? I'm _starving_!"

John laughed, going into the kitchen. "I never thought I'd ever hear you say those words! I'll see if there's anything in."

"What words?" Sherlock asked curiously, donning the robe the was thrown over the back of the desk chair.

" 'I'm starving.' "

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. "Well, it is fact. Do you think I can have pasta yet?"

After a few minutes of preparation, the pasta was ready. John went light on the butter and cheese, since he wasn't sure how Sherlock's malnourished body would respond to a refeeding. Of course, Sherlock starved himself all the time, so technically, his body would be trained to respond well to intake of nutrients. But John wanted to make sure. He'd given himself and Sherlock small helpings on purpose, so that Sherlock didn't feel left out, and supervised Sherlock's first meal in twenty and (about) a half days.

Sherlock was trying to eat slowly, of course being knowledgeable about refeeding syndrome and knowing he had to be careful in case he had it. But, in reality, it was hard to do, and he gradually found himself eating faster and faster, barely leaving enough time to swallow before he filled his mouth again. He was disappointed when his fork clinked against the bottom of the bowl, his mouth watering as his stomach asked for more, the muted growling indicating a faster digestion. He couldn't help moaning as he covered his stomach with his hand and looked pleadingly at John.

"How is it?" John asked, rising to take Sherlock's plate.

"Fine. I feel fine."

"You're not just saying that?" John raised a skeptical eyebrow.

Sherlock scoffed. "Oh _please_, John, come on."

John chuckled. "Right. Well, I'll give you another helping just to get you to sleep, and then we'll call it a night. You need rest."

"I _need_ a shower," Sherlock affirmed, crinkling his nose as John gave him another helping.

John laughed, eating his own supper. "That might be a good idea."

After he'd finished eating, Sherlock took a long shower. He washed his entire body three times, taking gentle care of his cuts. He felt for the first time how thin he actually was, and was again happy to be back in Baker Street.

When he had gotten out of the shower and thrown on his pajamas, he got under the covers on his bed, lying on his back with his hands cradling his head. His dinner, though small, had helped, and already he felt his condition had improved. With John taking proper care of him, he had nothing to worry about.

Sherlock drifted off to sleep, satisfied that he could afford to recover for a few weeks.

Of course, he'd forgotten completely about Moriarty.


	2. The Slings and Arrows

_**Chapter 2: The Slings and Arrows**_

Three days had passed since Sherlock had returned home. His condition was improving slowly, thanks to rest, relaxation, and regular meals, and thankfully, no word of Moriarty dared to interrupt his health. In fact, no cases were reported to him. There were some minor problems, of course, but Lestrade didn't come to Sherlock for help, in order to allow him time to recuperate. He only stopped by once during the first day to return Sherlock's coat and scarf, which had been left behind during the rescue. All was quiet.

Sherlock spent his days either in bed or on the couch when he wasn't eating, working on his blog or reading or doing other things on the computer. He sometimes played his violin absently, but not very often, as the energy needed to play properly was not possessed by the malnourished detective, and playing the instrument drained him almost irrationally.

In fact, Sherlock sometimes lacked the strength to lift things, such as particularly heavy books, on his own. Sometimes, he had strength closer to his days of good health. When he was strong, he sometimes sat before the open window to get air, reading or watching the denizens of London on the streets below. But on days when weakness overwhelmed him—and these days sadly far outnumbered his stronger ones—he slept in his bed or on the couch, watching telly, reading, or occupying his time on the computer afterwards.

John didn't encourage or discourage any of Sherlock's habits. As long as Sherlock continued to eat, he would continue to heal. And since Sherlock was always famished at mealtimes and ate surprisingly well, it seemed he was healing just fine.

It was mid-morning on the fourth day when Detective Inspector Lestrade's police car pulled up in front of 221B Baker Street. Despite protests from Mrs. Hudson and John, who both tried to deter him from going inside (Sherlock was sleeping, and had been sleeping since ten o'clock the night before after having needlessly tired himself out looking for something, and they did not want him disturbed), Lestrade stomped up the stairs leading to the flat and walked right in.

Sherlock had indeed been sleeping on the couch, at least until Lestrade had burst in. A few seconds before Lestrade opened the door, Sherlock's knees were loosely bent, his head nestled into his union jack pillow, eyes closed and mouth slightly parted in rest. A blanket was wrapped around his legs and had been pulled up to his chest, his folded arms holding it in place. Upon hearing Lestrade enter, however, Sherlock had weakly opened his eyes and sat up with some difficulty (his broken ribs had become sore while they healed, so it was difficult for him to bend), the blanket still flung across his knees.

Lestrade immediately regretted his decision to come up to the flat to awaken Sherlock. The man was thinner than Lestrade ever remembered seeing him, cheek bones poking out of the long face, eyes glazed and listless, arms and fingers thin where skin had receded, ribs visible even beneath his shirt. His hair was wild, not having been properly combed, and he looked like he'd been ill, his face a deathly pallor. Now, Sherlock was not dressed, but he was not in pajamas, either. He was wearing jeans, which were so loose on him they sagged in rolls around his feet, and a plain v-neck grey tee shirt, which also looked much too big for him. These were more signs that made the detective inspector aware of what he'd done. But it was too late to stop now.

Sherlock coughed, wincing because it hurt his ribs, and then looked tiredly at Lestrade. "What's happened?" He asked, his voice froggy and soft; so much so that Lestrade barely heard him.

"There's been a murder," Lestrade replied, still feeling out of place because of his intrusion. John had entered the room behind the startled Lestrade and had gone to make tea. After deliberating a while, Mrs. Hudson went back downstairs. "I thought you might want in on this one."

Sherlock sighed, and accepted tea from John with trembling arms. Shakily, he brought the cup to his lips, drank, and shivered. "I probably do. Particulars?"

"Young woman, probably late twenties or early thirties. Native to London. Brunette, about five foot six—"

Sherlock nodded. "All right. Just let me get dressed." He stood with some difficulty and walked into his bedroom, shutting the door. John sighed, wondering if he could convince Sherlock to eat something before he left the house, seeing that Sherlock had had nothing to eat since dinner the night before. And he _needed_ to eat, now more than ever. Sherlock seemed _weaker_ than when he'd been in captivity, if such a thing were fathomable.

After a few minutes, Sherlock emerged, paler still from the effort of moving. He was dressed in a shirt and trousers but with no matching jacket. He went into the kitchen and retrieved two bananas, opening one as he returned to the main part of the flat and sat down in his armchair. "Close the door, inspector," he said, his voice slowly gaining vigor as he swallowed the remains of the first banana and started on the second. Lestrade obeyed. "I'm sorry about all this. Really." Sherlock went on, taking another bite of banana, hunger very much apparent on his features. "It's just that I can't really _do_ much if I don't eat something first."

"It's all right, Sherlock. Jesus." Lestrade grumbled. "You _were_ Moriarty's prisoner."

"Yes. I was." Sherlock swallowed the last bite of banana and went to toss the peels in the rubbish bin. "Let's go. No need to ride in a cab."

John and Sherlock followed Lestrade down the stairs and got into the police car, Sherlock riding in the front and John in the back. This was the first time John had been inside a London police car, but Sherlock had ridden in one before. Many times, in fact. Sometimes disguised. In those cases, he was almost always riding in the back.

John noticed that Sherlock, though he was dressed in the great coat and scarf, did not seem at all pleased to be called away on a case. He seemed still so exhausted, eyes drifting closed only to snap back open, limbs limp, head lolling back to rest against the car's headrest. It seemed that even with a bit of breakfast on his stomach, weakness had won the day. Naturally, though, John couldn't say he blamed Sherlock. Had he gone through what the detective had, he would've been content to sit around all day and be waited on, too.

When they got to the crime scene, John fell in step with Sherlock, both so that they could converse and so he could watch in case the detective fainted. Sherlock's voice was still strained and weak when he talked, and he was prone to fainting if he didn't eat properly, which he hadn't. But Sherlock seemed a bit stronger now, his hands thrust in his pockets, proud head held high, eyes darting about, showing the great brain was hard at work.

Still, John felt the need to comment. "I wish Lestrade hadn't dragged you out, Sherlock. You need the rest."

Sherlock smiled. "Lestrade needs me, or he wouldn't have come. This is no ordinary murder."

John raised his eyebrows. "You don't think Moriarty—"

"I do." Sherlock replied grimly. "Lestrade can solve cases on his own. It takes longer, but he gets results. He wouldn't have disturbed my recovery for the world unless it was important."

They went up the stairs, Sherlock puffing a little, and finally found the room where the dead woman lay. Sherlock seemed a little surprised, and strength seemed to return to him. He slowly strode over and knelt by the body. "Rose," he murmured.

Lestrade seemed stunned. "Well, yes. Her name is Rosaline Jenkins. Has prior arrests for prostitution. Lived on the west side of London with her sister before she got involved with—"

"Moriarty." Sherlock replied. "Yes. I know. She was a Black Widow."

"Black Widow?" John asked.

"Yes. Apparently, Moriarty kept dangerous company. He called the women he rented to his men for sex 'Black Widows' and for good reason. I'm willing to stake my reputation not all of the girls have priors for something so tame as prostitution. That's saying they were caught, of course." Sherlock ran his hands and eyes over the body, deducting as usual. "John? Cause of death?"

John joined Sherlock at the side of the body and examined it. He lifted his head. "Contusions around the neck were done post-mortem. What looks like a sort of branding on her breast also done post-mortem. She died of a drug overdose. It would've been very quick; the drug gave her a heart-attack."

"He wasn't expecting that," Sherlock murmured, touching at the shirt that had been torn in two to get at her chest. "She had an allergic reaction to the drug and died. He wanted to make an example of her, hence all the detail post-mortem." He looked up. "I want a rape kit done for her."

Lestrade seemed a bit taken aback. "Okay, Sherlock."

"Let me know the results." Sherlock stood up. "This was dome personally by Moriarty."

"How do you know?" Lestrade asked.

"The brand," Sherlock pointed to the chest. "JM. I can't imagine that stands for anything less than 'Jim Moriarty' can you?" He frowned, looking almost sadly at the body. "Poor girl. She ran afoul of her boss."

"How can you possibly know _that_?" Lestrade demanded as Sherlock walked out slowly, John following behind him.

"Personal experience." Sherlock yawned. "Let me know if you find anything, Lestrade. I'll be at Baker Street all day."

Lestrade and John were surprised. Even considering Sherlock's condition, that was the most apathy Sherlock had shown during a case to date.

In reality, however, as Sherlock ate his lunch and busied himself knee-deep in research, he was feeling more than he usually did when involved with a murder. The fact that he had known Rose personally threatened to drain him emotionally. He hoped no one had noticed, but inside, he was in pain.

He had told Rose she would be safe while he still breathed.

He had _lied_.

_Now I can share with you a little secret. You ready?_

_In Chapter 9 of __Starving Sherlock__, there is an unfinished sentence: "__This self of later on would be grateful no one had seen him so pitiful—particularly not John, whose compassionate heart would have broke long ago, at the sight of his best friend's peril. At least, not—"_

_I had originally intended to finish the "at least not" with "at least, not by anyone still living." But I didn't, because it would spoil it all for you. _

_I'm so very sorry.-SH_


	3. Screw Your Courage to the Sticking Place

_**Chapter 3: Screw Your Courage to the Sticking Place**_

Dinnertime rolled around, and John decided to make one of Sherlock's favorite dishes: pasta with basil and Parmesan cheese, heavily buttered. Sherlock seemed sort of in a funk, though he had been researching madly at the computer since he'd finished his lunch. John was just a bit worried that the murder had shaken him. Not because of the death, of course, but of the murderer.

John set out Sherlock's plate (a large one, generously piled with pasta) and was about to call for him when the thin man appeared at the opening to the kitchen, as silent and as white as a ghost. As I need not mention, his clothes were far too big on him. His shirt had come untucked in the hours since he'd put it on, and his trousers looked baggy, cumbersome around his ankles. He looked rather out of place in the too-big clothes, like a child wearing hand-me-downs. It only made him look thinner still.

Sherlock sat before the large bowl of pasta, his eyes wide and wet, his mouth just slightly parted, his hands cradling his stomach, and his tongue passing repeatedly over his lips. John did not need to learn that these signs indicated hunger. As a doctor, he knew when a patient of his was getting hungry. Although Sherlock wasn't a patient and, quite frankly, John had never seen Sherlock _act hungry_ before. Even after so many days on a case.

Sherlock lifted his fork and dug into the pasta, pulling up a bite. He seemed to study it for a while, turning it around in his hands, his wet eyes glazing over, his pupils dilating just slightly to indicate his weakness. Then, he put his elbow on the table and rested his chin on his hand, putting the fork down without eating what was on it. He sighed, closing his eyes.

In the days since he'd returned, John hadn't once seen Sherlock turn away food, even if it wasn't a dish he particularly liked. And Sherlock couldn't not be _physically_ hungry, at the very least! He was severely malnourished and, by his own admission, couldn't do much without eating. So, what was bothering him?

John leaned back against the counter. "You okay, Sherlock?"

A faint growl filled the room, though it was louder still to Sherlock, whose ears rang at the sound. It felt like his stomach had decided to become vertical in orientation within him. It wasn't an enjoyable feeling. He opened his eyes and looked at John sadly. "No, John," he admitted softly, "I'm really not."

"You will find him, you know. Moriarty." John comforted. He hadn't been sure if the ordeal with Moriarty had shaken Sherlock at all, but apparently, it had. And it was what kept him from eating tonight, when he still so desperately needed it.

"Yes. Obviously," Sherlock placed his other elbow on the table, pushing away his dinner, and rested his chin between both of his thin, bony hands. "That's not why I can't eat, John."

"You _can_ eat. You just don't want to."

Sherlock smiled faintly. "Well, perhaps." He groaned in the base of his throat as his stomach growled again, and he stared hungrily at the food his mind would not allow him solace in. "But I did a terrible thing."

"What?" John chuckled. "_Kill_ someone?"

"Yes." Sherlock replied, closing his eyes and inhaling the scent of the pasta, which was slowly growing cold. "Though indirectly."

John thought back to the scene of the crime. "Rose." He murmured. "You _knew_ her?"

"Yes. We met while I was imprisoned. She fell in love with me." Sherlock had before felt his remorse fading by degrees. Now, however, it snapped right back. No matter how much his body might be telling him he needed food, Sherlock's mind was nowhere near in agreement.

"Oh." John said softly. "What happened?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I told her she would be safe until she could find a way to get out of London. Obviously, I lied."

"Sherlock." John's voice was stern, which caused Sherlock to sit up straight and listen intently to his friend. "You can't blame yourself for this. You were—you _are_—weak and sick! You couldn't have done very much for her. It's not like she told you where she was going to be! It's _not_ your fault she's dead!"

"But she _trusted_ me!" Sherlock snapped, obviously more angry at himself than at John. "That she should come to me and that I sent her away to her death—!" He folded his arms on the table and buried his head in them. John was not as all surprised to see his spine and his ribs beneath the dress shirt as he did this. The bending couldn't have been very nice on his ribs, either.

John came over behind Sherlock and rested a hand on the man's shoulder. "You did your best, Sherlock." He soothed, noting that the man's form trembled under his touch. "You told her to get out of London. Moriarty just got to her first. It's unfortunate, but it isn't the end of the world."

Sherlock shook his head petulantly.

"People die every day, Sherlock," John went on. "At least she died quickly. It could've been worse."

Sherlock sat back slowly. "I suppose you're right." He looked up at his friend, putting his hand over John's in a friendly, if platonic, gesture. "Things can always be worse when Moriarty's involved." He pulled his pasta forward, taking up his fork eagerly, the hunger back in his eyes. "Let's get him!" He stuffed the pasta into his mouth, but made a face. It was cold and slimy.

John chuckled and took the plate, putting it in the microwave. Then, he put more butter and cheese on top and gave it back to Sherlock.

With his hunger restored, Sherlock devoured three plates of pasta, shoveling the food into his mouth with great intensity.

For the sake of London, he could not afford to go hungry.

_I'm waiting, Sherlock…_


	4. The Short and the Long

_Been trying to upload this all afternoon! Sorry for the wait!-SH_

_**Chapter 4: The Short and the Long **_

Sherlock had his first night of sleeplessness since his return home. He spent the night tossing and turning in his bed, his mind racing with facts and figures and good food he really wanted to eat until he finally gave up trying to sleep.

Sherlock lay on his back, cracked a gaping yawn, scratched his chest, and stared up at the ceiling, blinking drowsily. He turned his head and looked at the digital clock on his bedside table. 2:40 AM. Considering he'd crawled into bed around 11:00 PM, that meant he'd gotten three hours and forty minutes (roughly—he estimated he fell asleep around 11:10 PM) of sleep. Not that it was very restful sleep, either, but the point's been made.

Sherlock got up and stretched his arms high above his head, the soreness of his broken ribs dulled by his mind's half-asleep state. He dressed in the cool hours of the morning; a dress shirt, trousers, and jacket, along with socks and shoes. Then, he brushed his teeth and combed his hair and wandered out into the main part of the flat.

He grabbed his laptop off the couch and turned it on, sitting down at the cluttered desk. He opened up the Internet browser and did a few quick web searches. He hacked into Scotland Yard's online police files and snooped around, confirming that Rosaline Jenkins had, in fact, been arrested for prostitution and convicted all three times. She spent a year in prison the first time, seven months the second time, and three months the third time. The man who had bought her out of prison the last time was called Richard Brook.

Sherlock did some research on this man, but suspected already that he was Moriarty. There was precious little on this Richard Brook character, which fueled Sherlock's thought process. He remembered that one of the Black Widows was called Tequila. He went back to the Scotland Yard webpage and did a quick search, but so many people went under that alias, it would take days to track one down.

"I wish you could help me," Sherlock whispered, his eyes scanning the web pages. "I wish I'd been a little nicer. Rose…" Yes, he still regretted her death. He didn't quite know why he felt so deeply for her, or why, after deciding he did not feel affection for her, his mind had been quieted when she kissed him. Then, he had a thought.

_Of course!_ She was peace among the chaos, solid ground in a sea of instability. Sherlock had not been able to observe much about the Black Widows who had abused him with the riding crop, but he remembered their unsavory natures. He'd seen the seven wedding rings around Tequila's neck, and deduced that she'd killed seven husbands (he put this into the Scotland Yard search, but no matches were found—she wasn't caught, then). One had been a CIA agent. (He hacked the American website, which was easy to do, but had little to go on from there). Two were mere teenagers, possibly runaways. (He tried missing persons.)

Rose was the misfit of them all. Why had Moriarty brought a woman who had never killed into the circle? Was it for her skill in more sexual areas? Or, had the beautiful woman been another part of his plot, as the murders in food sellers had been?

Sherlock sat back from the computer, his hands pressed together in thought. Had Moriarty thought Sherlock would fall in love with the girl, and tell him anything to keep her safe? If it had been, this plan had failed. But…what if… (And Sherlock shuddered) what if…he'd meant to kill Rose all along, despite Sherlock's connection to her, or lack thereof? Sherlock did not put this past Moriarty, and adapted it as his nemesis' new motive.

But…why? Why the senseless killing? Sherlock always hated random killers, almost as much as he liked them. Their puzzles were intricate, confusing, and brilliant. But they were often horrible individuals; narcissists who thought they were invincible and could do as they pleased. Well, this fit Moriarty to a tee.

Sherlock had no knowledge of the passing of time, so he was startled by John's sudden intrusion into his thoughts.

"Morning, Sherlock," John seemed a bit surprised to find Sherlock awake, and for good reason. Sherlock's habit of the last few days had been to sleep in, at least until noon. It was nine o'clock now.

"Morning, John," Sherlock replied distractedly, typing something on his laptop.

"How long have you been up?"

"Since 2:40. Couldn't sleep."

"Oh." John went into the kitchen. "Care for a cuppa?"

"Maybe later."

"Some breakfast, then?"

"No, thank you."

John stomped back into the living area. "Sherlock."

"Oh, yes, I _know_!" Sherlock snapped, and John thought for a second he was going to smash his fist onto the laptop. "_I __**can't**__ eat __**now**_! Not when I'm _so close_!" He clenched his fists on his thighs, sighed shakily, closed his eyes and tilted his head back. His thin body was swimming in his clothes—John could see that even his briefs were lost in his trousers—and he looked pale and deathly ill today, more than he had any other day. He was suffering.

And, indeed, Sherlock _was_ suffering. His stomach was so empty that it felt like an invisible hand was crushing it or stretching it like an elastic band. He'd caught a fever; he could feel the flush at his cheeks, the sweat on his brow. His throat felt like something was stuck in it, and it got worse whenever he tried to swallow it down. But he couldn't stop. Not when, maybe, he could get a clue, solve the mystery, take down Moriarty!

John noted that Sherlock's breathing was getting anxious and labored, indicating an increase in heart rate. He went over and grabbed his friend roughly by the shoulders, gripping tightly until he could feel the bone beneath the skin. "Listen to me, Sherlock. You need to calm down. Can you do that for me?"

Sherlock's head tipped forward and rested for a moment against John's chest. Even as inadequate as it was, John could tell Sherlock had a fever. The younger man tipped his head back slowly, just enough so that he was looking John in the eyes. His breathing calmed and relaxed.

"Good," John said approvingly. "Very good. Now, take off your jacket so you don't sweat as much, and roll up your sleeves. I'll get you some cold water."

Sherlock obeyed, but when John brought him the water, he hesitated. John gave him a scolding look. The consulting detective sighed and closed trembling hands around the glass. He took one sip and choked, coughing, putting the glass down before he spilt it all over himself. John stepped back in surprise—this reaction was new to him. "Sherlock! You okay?"

Sherlock gasped for breath and yawned. "Yeah. Can't swallow, though."

"Does your throat hurt?"

"No," Sherlock clasped his long, thin hand around his throat, though, as if he was trying to soothe it. "This is a bit more extreme version of what I usually feel when I'm on a case."

John raised an eyebrow. "Wait. Is that why…?"

"Yes," Sherlock's ice blue eyes steadily found John's dark blue ones. "_This_ is why I don't eat when I'm on a case. Or, one reason, anyhow. The adrenaline kicks in, I think, and I can't focus on anything else, even if I'm actually starving."

"Like now."

"Well, yes, like now. Although I've never actually starved this long before. Think the pre-existing record was only a week."

"Do you think," John began slowly, cautiously, "you can eat _at all_?"

"Well, I have to." Sherlock replied simply. "My stomach feels like it's eating itself, which is a painful distraction. Never mind I'm _far_ too weak to just go gallivanting off somewhere without a proper meal." He pushed his laptop away and put his face in his folded arms on the desk. "I can't take it, John. I feel like I'm about to starve to death every second I go without a meal." And Sherlock closed his mouth, trying to muffle the sob that somehow leaked to the surface.

John, even as a doctor, felt powerless with this information. The only cure he could prescribe to Sherlock was good, healthy food, constant supervision, and patience. There was little he could do to numb the pain Sherlock was surely feeling. Even vitamins wouldn't help, as they hardly substituted a meal. Besides, with Sherlock unable to swallow, they wouldn't do any good. "Lie down and rest for a bit," John commanded. Sherlock sat up, tears slowly making their way down his face. "Your fever is pretty high, which is probably contributing to the stress you're feeling—"

"I'm _not_ stressed," Sherlock tried to hiss or snap, but with his voice shaky from tears, it only sounded obstinate.

John's face hardened into his doctor's mask. "I suspect that if you rest a bit, your fever will go down on its own. The rest will allow you to relax, and then maybe you'll eat something."

Sherlock yawned, feeling his body grow limp and weak. Yes, a nice kip would do wonders for him right now. He stood up and wandered towards his bedroom. "Maybe—" he yawned again, "maybe Lestrade will have some news."

"Maybe," John said, smiling kindly. "You rest. When you wake up, I'll make you a nice breakfast. Does that sound good?"

Sherlock didn't reply, though. He was passed out.

_How do you like me now, Sherlock?_


	5. O Noble Fool

_**Chapter Five: O Noble Fool**_

Sherlock woke up in his bed, not quite remembering everything that had happened. He recalled having a fever and being sent to bed by John. But everything else was hazy, unsteady. Noises had woken him. He lay in bed listening for a while. He could smell the crisp scent of deli rolls and thick cuts of meat—so sandwiches, then. Probably from Speedy's. There were two male voices. One was John's, and the other…

Detective Inspector Lestrade. News!

Sherlock jumped to his feet, wobbled, and tumbled back towards the bed, his vision swirling about him like a thousand ripples in water. _Oh_. He needed food. He hadn't eaten yet today, and needed it sorely. He remembered wanting to be stuffed, felt a faint desire for it, and his stomach growled hungrily.

Sherlock sat up slowly, working the sleepiness out of his bones. The clock said 1:10. He'd been sleeping for about three hours. His fever had gone away, and he felt considerably more relaxed if not very weak, very hungry, and _very_ much ready for some lunch.

He strode out into the main part of the flat, yawning, finding that he'd been correct in his deductions.

Gregory Lestrade had pulled the chair out from behind the desk and John was sitting in his armchair. Lestrade had pulled the chair before the fireplace, and he and John were joking like mates, sandwiches from Speedy's in their laps. But they looked up upon seeing him. John got up from his armchair, about to check Sherlock's temperature.

"Sherlock! You're awake!" John exclaimed, obviously surprised. "Sorry—did we wake you?"

"I'm _fine_, John" Sherlock replied, dodging John's hand. He didn't want to be fussed over while Greg was here. But he was trying to be kind about it—he really did appreciate John taking care of him, and hoped that would continue. He looked at the representative of the official police. "What is it, Greg?"

Lestrade looked shyly at the consulting detective. It was hard to talk about a case—even one he needed help with—in front of the thin, disheveled, pale man. Sherlock read the detective's uneasiness and lowered himself into his chair. John sat back down, but did not resume eating his sandwich. Sherlock felt his appetite drain away as the detective began his report.

"We did the rape kit, but it came up negative. We've found the sister and notified her. The techs are looking at her personal affects as we speak."

"What did you find?"

"There was a computer and a mobile, among other things. We're looking at the hard drive and browser history, checking recent calls, and the like."

"Any results?"

"No. Not yet."

Sherlock pulled his knees up to his chest and pulled a hand down over his face as a shiver reverberated through his body. This was probably the first time in several years that he didn't want to be on a case. He was tired, feverish, starving. Too damn thin to do everything he wanted to do. But he _had_ to take this case. He couldn't just ignore it.

"Give me her computer and her phone," Sherlock said at last, wearily. "I'll see what I can find."

"Okay," Lestrade's voice sounded weak and defeated. Sherlock didn't sound excited about the case. No, he sounded tired. Weak. Unwilling. Sherlock Holmes truly _was_ a great man. Apparently, it had taken being imprisoned by Moriarty to bring the greatness out.

What makes a man great is self-sacrifice. You could argue Sherlock already does that. He starves himself and forgoes sleep while he's on a case. But he _enjoys_ the work, so that isn't self-sacrifice. At the abandoned pool, when Moriarty threatened John, Sherlock went instead. That was the beginning of self-sacrifice, and it was continuing right now.

Jim Moriarty had made Sherlock Holmes into a great man. Go figure.

John sighed and broke the silence. "Tea, Sherlock? I'm sorry, I didn't think to get you a sandwich."

Sherlock smiled. "It's all right. Tea is fine. Thank you, John." He would've liked to say he wasn't really hungry anyway, but that wasn't quite true. His stomach was still bothering him, daring to grumble and complain. The room had become awkward for his presence, the consulting detective noticed. John and Greg weren't relaxed now. He had to loosen the tension somehow, even if he could bring it back to the way things were before, when he could command a presence in the room.

John gave him his tea and sat down. Sherlock sipped at it, and felt a little better. The caffeine levels in tea were not as high as the ones in coffee, but it sufficed. He relaxed, and felt the room relaxing with him. "We'll solve this case, Lestrade," Sherlock went on, trying not to yawn. "_I'll_ solve it," he corrected himself. "You ignorant sods at the Yard will follow along like duck hatchlings." He smirked, and Lestrade laughed heartily. Even John chuckled a bit.

Sherlock, apparently, could loosen tension by being an egomaniac. Why am I not surprised?

Lestrade got up. "I'll see if the lab got anything from the computer and mobile, then I'll bring them over to you. See if you can't make sense of them." He nodded to John and then left.

"I'll make you a sandwich," John said, getting up.

"No, no," Sherlock uncurled his legs, stretching, "I'll do it. You need to update your blog."

As Sherlock went into the kitchen, he heard John's laptop turning on.

"I'm not even going to ask how you knew that."


	6. It is Meat and Drink

**Chapter 6: It is Meat and Drink**

Sherlock devoured his sandwich, letting hunger overwhelm him as he ate. John, very politely, didn't watch and instead focused on the telly. Sherlock finished up his small meal and slid his hand down his chest, feeling his stomach growl. He was still hungry, and wanted something else to eat. Desperately.

It still hurt, still made him dizzy, to think that he'd actually gone without food for twenty-one days. Most days, the information deprived him of energy. He actually missed his three days of boredom, where his biggest effort of the day would consist of locomoting from the couch to the kitchen table. John had offered, of course, to bring him his meals, but Sherlock refused, and so forced his body to work for its nourishment. Besides, it gave him a chance to stretch, and to test his transport. In fits of energy, he would stride about the flat, or sit in front of the open window and read or just watch London denizens rushing by on their way to work, to lunch, to business meetings, to lovers, et cetera. He realized, dully, during these times that the deductions made him dizzy, made his head spin. For once, his brain was ahead of the health of his body, instead of the two things working in tandem.

He got up and went into the kitchen, feeling a desire for something sweet. He found a package of party rings and smiled, grabbing an apple before returning triumphantly to the couch. He bit into the crisp apple happily, munching with a satisfied 'mmmm' in the back of his throat. He leaned back against the couch and closed his eyes as he swallowed, the chill of the fresh fruit against his teeth utterly irresistible. It felt good to eat, he thought. The more food Sherlock fed himself, the more energetic and strong he became. He took another bite of the apple and chewed thoughtfully, happily, and for a moment, he forgot about the pressing issue of Rose's murder.

Then, of course, Lestrade ruined paradise.

There was a knock on the door. "Come in!" John and Sherlock called simultaneously. Lestrade hurried in with two evidence bags in his hand Sherlock sat up, swallowing thickly, and stood, stepping onto the coffee table in order to get to Lestrade quicker, the apple still in his hand, the party rings forgotten, unopened, on the couch.

Lestrade panted, obviously winded from being dragged around because of the investigation. "Jenkins' laptop and phone."

"Been dusted for prints?" Sherlock asked, taking the bags from Lestrade and tossing both devices idly onto his armchair.

"Yes. Thoroughly."

"And?"

"None but hers."

"List of contents on the laptop?"

Lestrade handed over a few sheets of printer paper. Sherlock scanned them, handing them off to John absently after he'd read them, the doctor ready to receive them from his flatmate.

"It's fairy standard for a young woman her age," Lestrade went on. "No suspicious web searches, unless you count her visits to several websites."

Sherlock nodded. "Anything to do with spiders looks promising. I'll look into it." He paused before handing the third sheet to John, looking at two files in particular. "Movie files?" He questioned.

Lestrade shrugged. "Apparently, she used her webcam and a basic video-editing software to upload two videos."

"Obviously. And obviously to convey a special purpose," he pointed them out to Lestrade impatiently, "they're addressed to me."

Indeed, the two video files were called "sherlock1" and "sherlock2."

"Did you look at them?" The consulting detective demanded, and Lestrade was glad to see the fight back in the center of his eyes. For all that he was weak, the love of his work shone through.

"No." Lestrade replied.

"You're idiots," Sherlock responded, staring at the files. He gathered the papers from John and threw them back at Lestrade. "Obviously, they contain some important information."

"Didn't she have a crush on you?" John asked, more in jest than seriousness. "Couldn't it just be…I dunno…love poems?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, horrified at that possibility. "I hope not. She seemed smarter than she looked. If money troubles didn't force her into prostitution, she probably could've done something far more meaningful." He set the devices carefully on the floor beside him and fell into his chair. "I'll look them over. Let me know if you find anything." He waved his hand absently at Lestrade. "Shoo."

"All right," Lestrade scratched at his neck. "Let me know if you find anything worth a poke at."

"Naturally," Sherlock nodded. Lestrade left. John looked at his phone. Sherlock looked up. "What is it, John?"

John groaned. "One of the doctors went home sick at the surgery. They've asked me to cover." He looked at Sherlock, not just in a normal, friendly way. He was using his analytical doctor stare, one that was often directed at Sherlock, to assess his health. "Will you be all right here by yourself?"

Sherlock chuckled. "Of course. There's plenty of food, and I'm not prone to fainting. I predict I won't leave this chair for much, anyway." He smiled. "Go to work. You worry far too much."

"Sometimes I think I don't worry enough," but John was already grabbing his coat, the soldier in him unable to refuse a command, the medic in him refusing to let patients go uncared for, the John in him unable to leave anyone in the lurch. "Text me if you need anything. Will you tell me about any developments?" Despite the fact that he could be quite the complainer, John loved the cases they went on, loved the action and adventure that Sherlock had brought back into his life.

That part of John, Sherlock was always happy to indulge. "Yes. Goodbye, John."

John nodded and then left. The flat buzzed into an uncommon silence.

Sherlock stretched his legs and pulled the evidence bag containing Rose's computer from its spot on the floor. He opened the bag and took it out, noting its weight, make, and size. He didn't care much for the name brands of technology, but noted that it was the same—if not an earlier model—as his. Perfect. It would be child's play to navigate on a familiar computer. He waited impatiently for it to turn on and located the movie files without difficulty. He pulled up "sherlock1" and pressed "play."

Instantly, the image of Rose filled the screen. She obviously didn't realize the camera had started recording. She didn't look like a Black Widow anymore—just a regular, harmless young woman. She was dressed normally, and without the heavy, clown-like makeup. Thank God. She was fixing her hair into a ponytail, and leaned forward into the camera, before realizing it was recording. "Oops," she giggled, "sorry." Sherlock couldn't help the smile that slid across his features. "I know you're not interested in me, but I thought of so many things that I could tell you, to help you. I've been on the inside. I've been close to Jim. I'm a wealth of information. I guess I'm not surprised that I could just die. Very easily. He doesn't value life." She swallowed and looked away uncomfortably. "I'd rather not talk about that." She held up a paper—newly printed from a printer. Sherlock took in her surroundings—dingy motel—and frowned, trying to read the contents of the page. "These are all the Black Widows that I know about, because who knows if he kept more? Maybe you will someday. I'm so sorry I couldn't help you before, but I'm helping you now." She flushed noticeably. Sherlock felt an ache that wasn't hunger or physical pain creep through him—remorse? That—what? That he couldn't make things better for her? That he couldn't tell her everything was all right and that he was safe? No, no, he was starting to do that hero thing again. Focus, Sherlock. Focus. "I took the liberty of typing them up, too, so you'll find the document on my computer. I'm not sure where Jim is right now, but one of the Widows said on her blog that he just opened a new club called The Spider's Nest. I don't know the point of it, but it must be important, because the post was replaced a minute later with a picture of her bound and gagged. I'm fairly certain it's on the east end of London, but I can't be sure. I think there's a website," Rose took a deep breath and tamed a stray strand of hair, smiling sweetly. "That's all I've got for now, I'm afraid. I know it's not much, but I hope it's enough."

_It's more than enough!_ Sherlock wanted to say. _It's brilliant!_ But, of course, he couldn't tell her any of that. She was dead. He felt that sinking in his chest begin again—heartache, he thought it was called. But why? He didn't love her, certainly not. But it was…_wrong_. Very oh-so-much wrong for a woman—for _anyone_—to have to die like that. To die such a boring, but painless, death. Oh well, sort out your feelings later—ugh, hateful things. When did he get them and how the devil could he make them go away?—information. Information is most important.

"I love you, Sherlock," Rose was saying. Then, the movie timed out.

Sherlock did a quick search through the computer and found the document Rose had spoken of. As promised, it listed every Black Widow that Sherlock had seen so far. Pug, Tequila, Purr, Acid, and the rest were there, as well as their true identities. Martina Ramirez—Tequila—he recognized from the Yard's website. But that wasn't important now. That was boring information—people for Lestrade to question. He did a quick web search and found The Spider's Nest. It was advertized as a dance club that allowed young people to come twice a week. It looked swanky and fashionable—just what the youth loved best—and promised a good time. The adult section of the site promised sex. The advertized practices were vulgar but not illegal. Damn. Well, he'd been intending to go under cover, anyway. He was used to not being able to count on the official force for aid.

Sherlock scratched his ribs through his shirt with a yawn. He was still hungry, and just a little bit tired. He was reminded again that he'd spent his three days of boredom (mostly, at least) sleeping. He missed those days, when he didn't need to leave the couch if he so desired, and John waited on him hand and foot. That was nice, and Sherlock had been kind to his flatmate—trying not to be too demanding, showing his appreciation—thankful to be alive and back in Baker Street. Because although he was loathe to admit it, Sherlock had come to terms with his mortality…and was now thankful for life.

Sherlock decided to watch the other movie. Then, those party rings were calling his name. He licked his lips hungrily as he thought about the sweet taste of the biscuits as he started the video…

And suddenly, his hunger left him.

Rose was before him, her clothes disheveled. She was panicked, breathing heavily, her eyes wide with fear. Sherlock looked at the date on the video, and he felt sick.

The day of her death.

_No_. Part of him bucked against the reality, but Sherlock stayed focused, his eyes taking in every detail. A thump on the door made Rose start with a sharp cry, and when she talked, her voice was rushed and quiet.

"I don't have much time, Sherlock. He's here. He's come to get me. I'm so afraid. But I had to tell you—" Another bang on the door, and this time, Rose screamed. Sherlock jumped, and thought about turning down the volume. "M—my friend, my friend is at The Spider's Nest. Minali Gadhavi, code name Impala. She's going to become the Black Widow to replace me. God, I don't know why, she—" More banging, but Rose stayed quiet this time.

"Open up!" The harsh voice of Sebastian Moran. "We know you're in there!" The door was going to give. Rose knew she didn't have much time. Sherlock watched her resign herself to her fate; her face terrified and deathly pale.

"If you tell her that you know me, she'll be able to help you. She's smart, she doesn't let her emotions overwhelm her. You'd like her. She's a logical young woman." Rose smiled, and Sherlock smiled too, if sadly. He knew what would happen.

And then his ears were ringing as the door was broken down, two thugs—the "meatheads" Moriarty had referred to—dragging her backwards, gagging her, Moran simply closing the laptop with a sadistic smile to the camera, Rose's scream the last audible sound.

And silence.

Sherlock shuddered, pain thrumming through his body. It was as if he felt every bruise, every cut, every ache all at once. It was overwhelming—too much data—and he longed to escape from it, to be free, to never have been captured, to maybe have been smarter, better, faster, _stronger_, but it was too late for those thoughts, too late to wish he'd never let the riding crop touch him, too late to will a great quantity of food into his stomach. No time for that now. Sherlock tossed his head back and let the data absorb.

Minali Gadhavi. Impala. The Spider's Nest. Black Widows. Moriarty, Moriarty, Moriarty.

He discarded Rose's laptop for his own. Then, he began hastily putting together the perfect disguise.

When John returned home from the flat, he found Sherlock with his knees curled up to his chest, laptop balanced on the top of his knees, nimble fingers typing away. The evidence bags were gone, and Sherlock's phone was resting on the chair's arm, close by in case he needed it. It was full-on case mode, Sherlock totally intoned to the facts and ignoring all else.

It made John happy, to an extent. This was Sherlock in his natural element, doing exactly what he ought. It would've made John ecstatic, were Sherlock better. Were the bruises completely gone, the ribs cushioned by just an inch more of skin, the stomach's growling muted instead of insistent and desperate, the cheek bones and face less severe, the clothes fitting properly. But there had been no rest for Sherlock—no _real_ period of recovery. And John was always ready to pick up the pieces and nurse him back to health again. And again. And again.

He cleared his throat and Sherlock looked up swiftly, his pupils dilating before he brought a hand to his head, his knees dropping as a soft moan passed his lips.

"Sherlock, you okay?" John tutted worriedly, dashing over to his friend, automatically checking vitals. Sherlock's pulse was racing, his head hot with fever. "Relax, Sherlock. You need to _calm down_," he soothed, keeping his voice low and soft and slow.

Sherlock relaxed and sat up again, smiling at John. "How was the surgery?" His voice was low and deep—weak, but fine otherwise.

John sighed in relief. "Boring." Sherlock chuckled and gladly took the glass of water John offered him. "How's the case?" He was reluctant to ask, only because Sherlock looked so weak. But the consulting detective brightened, renewed by the joy of his passion.

"Going well. I have a new lead." He stretched gingerly, taking each limb one at a time before arching his back with a grunt of effort, eyes closing as his body supported the stretch. "Several, actually, but I need time to prepare…" he trailed off, pulling his knees to his chest again. John went into the kitchen to make dinner—he was _famished_ from his exertions.

The leftover roast lamb (God bless Mrs. Hudson! Have we mentioned that England would fall without her?) was just getting to room temperature in the oven when Sherlock inhaled the scent and his stomach gave a mighty growl. Sherlock put his feet on the floor and rested first one hand and then the other over his concave belly. "Time for dinner, then?" he murmured to himself huskily before rising with some difficulty (he was unsteady on his feet, probably from the slight change in his temperature) and gliding into the kitchen with ease.

John started when he turned to find Sherlock sitting at the table, sipping soda from a can he held in both hands, his lips curled around the metal edge. "Hungry?" He asked with a slightly wry, teasing sort of smile.

Sherlock nodded slightly. "Starving. I hadn't had time to think of it all day."

John felt his mouth hang open like a fish trying to breathe. When he could finally speak, it was his very best doctor scold. "That _can't_ be healthy."

"I'm sure it isn't, going by the way I feel!" Sherlock chuckled. John, giggled, amused that this, of all things, was Sherlock's reaction. "But I got distracted. You know how that goes."

"Yes, I do." The lamb finished heating up, and John served them both, giving the largest, best portion of the tender meat to Sherlock. They ate in silence, mostly because the two men were far too hungry to think up any useful conversation. Sherlock finished his portion first, regardless of its size, and reached up into the bread basket, grabbing a nice, soft roll and taking a huge bite, chewing noisily. John imagined that the unintentional fast had not only broken his routine and left him famished, but had probably a great deal to do with the return of his fever and the trembling he'd noticed in the man's limbs, the clumsiness in his movements.

"You need to fill your stomach," John stated. It was a command, not an option. "For once. Then, you need rest. No exceptions."

Sherlock swallowed down the rest of the roll, giving a military salute before retrieving the package of party rings from the living room, grabbing a banana from the fruit bowl. John laughed and finished up the rest of his dinner, doing dishes while Sherlock ate and watched telly. Sherlock returned to the kitchen to dispose of the rubbish and nibbled on a few biscuits out of the tin before deciding he was full and heading off to bed with a yawn.

"Goodnight!" He called just as he was about to enter his room.

"Night, Sherlock!" John called. He curled up with his laptop and worked on his blog for a while, checking for grammatical errors and such. Then, he, too turned in for the night.

…_and I think I will, too! I'm tired…_

_Sorry for the long wait on chapters! Hopefully, that won't happen again for a long time!-SH_


	7. Blow Winds, and Crack Your Cheeks

_Mentions of race are intentional, but not meant to be harmful, racist, or offensive.-SH_

_**Chapter 7: Blow, Winds, and Crack Your Cheeks**_

When John woke up the next morning, Sherlock was nowhere to be found. This wouldn't have been unusual, except that Sherlock had shown no desire at all to leave the flat since his return from imprisonment. John worried, though he tried not to, but told himself that Sherlock was (most likely) fine, and that he had probably gone for a walk. John was reading the paper, eating a few biscuits for breakfast, when Sherlock texted him.

_Don't worry, didn't want to wake you. Am fine, had to talk to someone. Will return later. SH_

So John went to work at the surgery, not worried anymore. When he got back, it was to a somewhat weird sight.

Sherlock was standing still, facing the doorway, shirtless, his arms outstretched. John could see that the belt holding his black trousers in place had improvised holes to make it tighter, one of which was being used. All over his upper body, designs were outlined in what looked to be cracking paste of some sort. Swirls and spirals decorated his chest, his ribs thrown into sharp contrast with thick lines in between them, flowing out into designs meant to emulate wind going across his concave stomach. A sun design was drawn over his navel, the rays stretching around to his back, trickling down to his hips. The branches of a tree were on his shoulders, and from them, birds flew down his arms, their wings stretched around his muscles (John was just as surprised Sherlock had muscles as he was about the tattoos). The tops of his hands were covered in feather designs, the side between his thumb and forefinger the curious eye of a bird, his thumb decorated with just the hint of a beak. A middle-aged Indian woman dressed in a red and pink sari was kneeling at his left hand, applying more of the paste from a tube to finish the eye on that hand.

John felt his jaw drop. He'd never seen Sherlock so still. The man breathed shallowly, as if afraid his breath would disturb the designs on his body. His eyes were closed peacefully, but they opened when he sensed John's presence. "Hello, John," he spoke almost without breathing, obviously afraid to move his body much.

"Sherlock…" John began, although he wasn't quite sure what to say about all this. "What's going on? What's all over your body?"

Sherlock smiled, closing his eyes again. John noted that he looked weak and very tired, as if all his strength went into holding his body upright and still. Which, John thought after a moment, was probably true. "It's the first part of my disguise, and what is 'all over' me is called henna paste."

"Disguise?" John asked, utterly confused.

"Yes. Obviously." Sherlock's voice gained a bit of life from stating what was obvious to him, but not to anyone else. "I need to go undercover to get closer to Moriarty, need to know what he's planning to do."

"Moriarty?" John questioned, a bit hurt. "You _found_ him?" The implied words were 'without me?'

Sherlock smiled again, if only to keep from chuckling. "Yes. The Spider's Nest is a dance club he owns on the east side of London. He's got an ulterior motive, and I want to know what it is. I can't fall behind in this little cat-and-mouse game. It's too dangerous for the general London populace if I do."

"Your disguise needs to be tattooed? Why didn't you just get real ones?" Although John could predict what the answer was going to be.

"Henna paste isn't permanent, but it lasts up to three weeks. Obviously, I wouldn't get this many real tattoos done—my body wouldn't be able to handle it, especially in my malnourished state, never mind that I have a general dislike for them—and reapplying tattoo makeup each day would take too long and cost too much money. So henna paste it is. Simple."

"Right," John sighed. "So, the disguise?"

Sherlock's eyes flicked to his laptop, which was open on his chair. John took it and looked through the open tabs. The first one was a picture scanned into a computer and emailed from an address he didn't recognize. It was the design for an outfit meant to be worn by Sherlock labeled "Raven." There was a black tee shirt with the faded metallic silver design of a bird rising from nothingness, black skinny jeans, black combat boots with faded yellow laces and the eye of a bird on each side. There was also a hoodie that was pitch back, though the hood had the dark, intelligent eyes of a bird, the end tapering into a yellow beak. The back of the hoodie had wings starting at the shoulder blades and stretching out to the arms. The zipper on the hoodie was yellow. Then, there was the mask, which was elegantly tapered to fit the human face shape. It was black with silver outlining the shape of the mask and the eyeholes of it. It was certainly an intricate disguise. The other open tab was an order placed for color contacts, in a rather soulless-looking black.

"This is an incredible disguise," John mused, staring at the designs again. "Someone's made this for you?"

"Good deduction, John. Yes, an old contact who owes me a favor offered to design it. The clothes should ship in three days."

"That quickly?"

"They're on rush delivery. And she has made clothes like that before. There are only minor changes to the color scheme. Rush delivery should have it here by the end of the week."

"Who is 'Raven'?"

"Whatever the rumors want him to be. That's mostly the reason for the disguise—to keep people guessing."

John chuckled. "And the contacts?"

"My eyes are a fairly unique color. Since I am changing nothing about my appearance save my clothes—another reason for the mask—the color change is necessary so that I will not be recognized."

"I see." John pointed to the woman kneeling at his feet. "What about her?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and tilted his head back a few inches with a careful sigh. "You know my methods. Apply them."

John thought a moment. "She's been quiet, didn't even look up when I came in. So foreign, then, and doesn't speak English. She's the artist, and she obviously owes you a favor. Half of London owes you favors."

Sherlock snickered, obviously trying not to laugh. "Correct on all accounts. This is Sitara Joshi. I helped her husband get off a murder charge last year. She's skilled with henna paste designs. I went to see her earlier—you'll notice that most of the paste is dry. She just wanted to fix the eye on my left hand." As he finished explaining, the woman looked up at him and spoke in a language John had never heard before and didn't understand. Sherlock gave a small nod and spoke back in the same language. Sitara's had sounded like a question, Sherlock's words a weary reply. Then, the woman got up and left the flat.

All was silent, until a strange noise disturbed the quiet. It sounded like the grinding of gears underwater.

"What was that?" John asked, sitting up. "Did the heat kick in?"

"No," Sherlock laughed quietly, restraining what would have been a much heartier laugh as he tried not to disturb the paste on his body. "It's my stomach. I haven't eaten anything all day."

"_Really_?" John had a right to be shocked—it was almost eleven in the evening, and Sherlock would have normally eaten _some_thing by now.

Sherlock's lips upturned briefly. "It wouldn't be so great a feat normally, but with how malnourished I am, it's a problem." He sighed, some of the dried paste falling off his body as he did so. "I got caught up in the case."

"What do you intend to find out by going undercover at the club?" John asked, nervous to interrogate his flatmate when he was obviously out of sorts.

But Sherlock was forever ready to talk about his work. "The candidate to replace Rose as a Black Widow is a young Indian girl with the code name Impala. If my suspicions are to be trusted, then she can get me all the information I need."

"Great. What sort of information?"

Sherlock inspected his right arm. Upon deciding the paste was dried to his liking, he put his hand to his head, raking it through his curls, the dried paste sticking amongst the black tangles. He seemed to guide his head backwards, so that his neck was exposed, before shaking his head like a wet dog to remove any hints of the dried paste. "Anything on Moriarty," he explained, his head snapping to attention. "I don't have enough data to narrow my search field. I'm hoping, though, that Impala will remedy that. God, I'm hungry," He pressed his hand to his midsection with a chuckle.

"Well, you can eat, can't you?" John got up from his chair with a groan as he stretched and went into the kitchen. "I'll see what we have in the ways of food and make dinner."

"Sounds good," Sherlock wet his lips and inspected the wet paste on his left hand with some distaste. He was happy that his disguise would be complete with the beautiful body art against his pale skin, but annoyed that the paste would take hours to stain his skin. He arched his back to remove the paste from it and collapsed into his chair. His back was decorated with two large wings, and he was proud of them. Proud of all the designs, really. Sitara was truly talented.

"We might have to have night-breakfast," John called from the kitchen, "it looks like that's all we have."

"That's fine." Sherlock responded, tilting his neck back to rest on the top of his chair. His stomach was angry with him after being neglected all day, the growls reverberating through him all he could think about. He closed his eyes, feeling the weight of his hunger overwhelm him completely, until every nerve ending in his body agreed with the bean-shaped tyrant in his abdomen. Dizzy and over-stimulated, he wondered briefly how he'd ever managed to ignore his stomach during cases, or when he was simply too bored to consider refueling. And then, he recalled everything.

Hunger gave him strength. Yes, when he was on a case, his stomach's growling was a source of power, heightening predatory senses in the hunt for a conclusion. But it was never a hunger that would last long. And after the case was finished, he would give in to his stomach and eat until he was sated and satisfied.

Sherlock groaned, stirring restlessly in his chair as another growl reverberated throughout his body. The abdomen holds the majority of organs in the human body, but it seemed as if his stomach was the only one in existence at present. Hunger didn't feel like power right now. Hunger felt annoying, insistent. It drained every ounce of energy his body could hold, replacing it with a cold, unforgiving, painful emptiness that needed to be remedied. Immediately.

John brought him night breakfast on a plate. A liberal dose of scrambled eggs (with cheese—this fact made Sherlock hum in pleasure), sausage, bacon, and buttered toast lay before him. Sherlock eagerly tucked in as John sat down with his own portion and finished the last bite long before John. The consulting detective felt better, but ravenous, and poked around in the refrigerator until he found some leftover pasta to heat in the microwave. Then, he ate that, too.

"Still hungry?" John asked lightly after Sherlock had finished off the pasta. Not one noodle scrap had been left behind.

Sherlock rolled his shoulders. "I'll always be hungry," He giggled, and John giggled as well. "But I'm fine. I can wait until morning to eat more." And he meant that. Now that his hunger had kindly been addressed, Sherlock felt like the persistent ache of malnutrition was mere background noise. Cheap static.

"All right," John yawned. "I'm going to bed. G'night, mate."

"Goodnight, John." Sherlock stretched gingerly and inspected the paste on his hand again. It had begun to crack prematurely because he hadn't been as careful about the drying paste as he'd meant to, but the design would have the desired effect. Besides, it was obvious the tattoos were henna. He hadn't been trying to pass them off for genuine, needle-applied body art anyhow. It was good enough.

Sherlock got up from his chair and laid down on the couch, still shirtless as he hadn't bothered to put one on after having taken it off to get the tattoos done, and had been less inclined to do it within his own flat. He slid his hand from head to torso as he'd done in captivity before, taking stock of himself mentally.

His curls were clean and brushed into a well-tamed mop, his head usually didn't hurt unless he hadn't eaten in several hours (it had ached today, though he'd been too distracted at the time to notice), his eyes still had bags under them, but they were faint and fading fast with all the sleep he'd been getting, his lips still chapped, but that was fine; he was caring for them with lip balm. His heart's beating was calm, soothed by the presence of his best friend and the warmth of a filling meal, his breathing coming slow and even, his body ready to sleep. His ribs and hip bones were still prominent (and likely his cheek bones as well), but not as severely as before. That was good. It meant recovery was happening, if slowly.

Sherlock yawned and, being careful to move his left hand out of the way, tugged the throw blanket from its place on top of the couch and tucked himself in, falling into a deep and restful sleep.

_Delay is because the power went out yesterday midway through the chapter and I didn't feel like writing it earlier. Enjoy!-SH_

_P.S. I give you nearly!naked Sherlock, because we all loved that glimpse of Benedict's torso in A Scandal in Belgravia, no? Hothothothothot ;)_


	8. Come the Three Corners of the World

_Has anyone noticed that in "A Study in Pink" when Sherlock and John are laughing together in the flat that Benedict holds his stomach? It just made me think of a conversation I was having with my friend about laughter making skinny people's stomachs hurt. Very interesting. (I'm a strange person, I know. I wrote this and Starving Sherlock, remember?) You can let me know if you think this is true, or ignore this entirely.-SH_

_**Chapter 8: Come The Three Corners of the World in Arms**_

Within two days, as Sherlock had said, his packages arrived. He spent the better part of that second day sorting the outfit to his liking, trying it on, and seeing how well it would work. He tried on the mask and the contacts, and decided that everything was in order. He studied the address of The Spider's Nest, but had no building plans to go by. He was going into the undercover job intellect-blind, which was something he would have refused to do—too much mystery for his liking—but the fact that a young life may likely be at stake meant that it was a necessary risk.

It was between meals in the early evening, and Sherlock was lying on his bed, his shoulders and head propped up against the headboard, looking over the list of known Black Widows he'd printed from Rose's computer before handing it back to the official force when he heard a knock at his door. "Yes?" He called, to let whoever was knocking (he thought John, by the heavy raps, but he couldn't be sure—Mrs. Hudson knocked like that when she was mad or excited) know he wasn't sleeping.

"Sherlock," It was John. "Lestrade's here to see you."

"I'll be right out." Sherlock slid off the bed, considered putting on socks and shoes, decided he didn't care, gave his hair a quick tease, and opened his bedroom door. John and Lestrade were standing before him, one calm, the other furious. "Hi," Sherlock smiled his best acting smile. "What can I do for you, Lestrade?"

"Sherlock, I _told _you," the grey-haired inspector ran an impatient hand through his practical cut, "I've _told_ you a _hundred_ times, not to withhold evidence!"

Sherlock blinked, having the dignity to look shocked. "Lestrade…" He placated.

"No, stuff it," Lestrade growled, tilting his head up to glare into the detective's pale eyes. "You were right about the spiders in her web searches. We found some incriminating stuff. Why spiders? Why?" His dark eyes sailed around the room for a moment, before they settled back on Sherlock.

"Yes, why spiders indeed?" Sherlock hummed thoughtfully, relaxing his tense stance as he pocked his hands. His trousers were still too big for him, and as he dug his hands deeper into his pockets, he pulled his pants with them, the fabric slipping through the taut belt, revealing more of the defined hips and waistline.

Lestrade glanced back at Sherlock, and seemed to realize something. "What's that on your chest, mate?"

Sherlock looked down at himself and almost burst out laughing. Being home all day and changing from pajamas to disguise to regular clothes and back again had made him lazy, so he wasn't wearing a shirt, letting himself remain half-dressed. The flat was warm, anyway, although a chill was always with him, and, as we have said, Sherlock was just too damn lazy to put a shirt on. It seemed the inspector, having been distracted, was just getting that now.

"Henna," Sherlock and John said simultaneously. They grinned at each other longways.

Lestrade put his hand to his eyes. "And you wonder why the world thinks you blokes are gay," he mumbled. "Look, why do you have…never mind, it's none of my business, sorry. I did come here to tell you something." He seemed lost a moment, distracted by his derailed train.

"You were yelling at me because I withheld evidence," Sherlock suggested innocently, resting his hands securely on his exposed hipbones. "Something I most certainly did not do."

Lestrade groaned. He never thought the day would come when he'd have to explain something to Sherlock Holmes. "We looked into The Spider's Nest. It's a dance club that allows youths to come, and offers sex on the side."

"Mmm. Didn't need to tell you that, did I?" Sherlock's eyes brightened as he absently pulled one of his shirts from where it lay on the arm of the couch. He slipped into it seamlessly, buttoning it absently with graceful fingers.

Lestrade ignored the evident sarcasm and went on. "It used to be an abandoned warehouse. It didn't take Moriarty long at all to turn it into a club, though."

"He's got funds and thugs galore, not to mention at least ten entertainers." Sherlock waved his hand and strode by Lestrade, heading for the kitchen. "Boring. Dull. Who cares _how_ he did it? The real question is _why_?"

"Yer, but _Sherlock_," the inspector's insistent voice was enough to make the consulting detective swing round the corner of the kitchen and lean absently against the wall, one knee bent, the bare foot touching the wall, arms crossed at his chest, fingers of the one exposed hand tapping on his bicep.

"Yes?" Sherlock's voice was innocent, lilting, and held the ghost of laughter. It didn't help that he had raised a curious eyebrow. John couldn't help giggling.

"The address," Lestrade stated exasperatedly. "You never told me it—"

A strangled cry interrupted their conversation. All three men were at attention like meerkats sensing danger. In half a second, Sherlock was in the hallway, sprinting down the stairs, Lestrade and John, guns drawn, at his heels.

The two men with weapons stopped in the hallway. Sherlock was nearly at the foot of the stairs, his hand resting over the ball topping the end of the banister. Mrs. Hudson, white as a sheet, was panting, all her weight against the door, her hand over her heart. Her eyes were wide in fear, but she relaxed when she saw Sherlock. "Oh, my pet," she breathed as Sherlock crossed the small distance to her. "I've had a terrible fright!"

Sherlock's eyes were hard with concern and curiosity. His thin hands grabbed Mrs. Hudson's biceps, his fingernails digging straight through to her clothes, though admittedly, it was a gentle—if firm—grip. He held her tightly in front of him, only a few steps from him. "What was it?" He demanded, but his voice held a genuine worry that for once was not masked by his usual cold tone. He shook her a little. "_What_, Mrs. Hudson!"

But the old lady was in pieces because of her shock. One might have thought the Devil himself had come knocking! Sherlock tsked impatiently in his throat, turning Mrs. Hudson away when he couldn't get information. John helped her back to her flat and Lestrade descended, gun still drawn, as Sherlock opened the door.

Mrs. Hudson had a good reason to be frightened of her visitor. A very dirty youth with old, tattered clothes stood on the doorstep, out of breath and smiling sheepishly. " 'owdy Mr. 'olmes," he greeted cheerfully. "Sorry bout scarin yer landlady."

"Never mind, Wiggins," Sherlock replied waving the young man inside. "Come upstairs and we'll see what sense can be made of this."

Once they'd gotten upstairs, Sherlock held his palm out, indicating that Wiggins should stand at the door, away from the rest of the flat. He stood a few feet from him, staring him down like an alpha wolf. "Now," he began calmly, "what are your findings?"

"Admittedly, not much, Mr. 'olmes," the man called Wiggins replied. "That man you 'ad me watch is awful boring."

"How? Boring how?" Sherlock demanded.

"Don't get yerself in a dither!" Wiggings laughed, holding his hands up in surrender. "I jus meant 'e was borin compared to them men you usually 'ave me after."

"What did he _do_? Out with it, or you'll get no tenner from me!"

"Alrigh, alrigh! Don't rush me, mate! He jus went sight seein, like a regular tourist! Rode the London Eye, 'e did, an' went to see some big important Bank o' London. There was one thing he did that made 'im worth a follow." Wiggins smiled. " 'e went to London's biggest prison: Wandsworth."

Sherlock smiled and pulled a tenner from his pocket. "Thank you, Wiggins," he gave the man the money and waved him away. The homeless man dashed down the stairs and out the door. "That makes some sense," he mused.

"What does?" Lestrade questioned as John came trudging back up the stairs after having made sure Mrs. Hudson was okay.

"Moriarty's obviously shopping for the perfect crime." Sherlock replied, pacing. John came in the door and slid around his flatmate, sliding into his chair. Lestrade took Sherlock's.

"But why would he do that?" Lestrade asked. "Doesn't he have a plan?"

"Moriarty doesn't need a plan," John replied.

"John has a point," Sherlock perched himself on the arm of John's chair, making the doctor move away reflexively. The detective seemed oblivious to his friend's discomfort, pulling one knee up to support himself, keeping one foot on the ground. "He doesn't know what crime he wants to commit. The Spider's Nest is a base, a hide-out, a safe-house."

"In a dance club with thousands of witnesses?"

"In a dance club with alcohol and sex." Sherlock's eyes brightened. "It's brilliant! It's the perfect cover!" He gesticulated wildly with his hands. "No one would _dare_ suspect the owner of a dance club! And the patrons will be drunk or out of the way. _Brilliant_!" He jumped up from the chair and leaned against the kitchen wall again. "Ah, I'm glad I thought to go undercover. This should be fun."

"Wait a minute," Lestrade got up angrily and strode over until he was face to face with the detective. Sherlock smiled down at him impassively. "You mean to tell me that you're going under cover, still sick, in a pub?"

"Yes." By Sherlock's tone, he didn't seem to think this was a problem.

"And what if you get recaptured? What if you're injured, and no one can get to you?"

"I will be in contact with John. But I need not break my cover. If I get recaptured, I shall outlast Moriarty's patience." Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest. "I am not so weak anymore." Though his underweight, severely slim body and pale, thin face seemed to suggest otherwise.

"All right," Lestrade threw his hands up in the air and went to leave. "Fine. Just…contact me when you get something useful."

Sherlock nodded, and Lestrade took off. The consulting detective chuckled. "My, he's tense, isn't he?"

John chuckled_._ "He has good reason to be, I think."

Sherlock ran a hand through his curls and then smirked at John. "Dinner?"

"Starving," John replied, and Sherlock led them to Angelo's.


	9. An IllFavored Thing

_**Chapter 9: An Ill-Favored Thing**_

A day of normalcy passed. John went to Tesco's and stocked up on groceries. Sherlock ate three meals a day and snacked in between. They talked of anything but the case. In the evening, they sat around snacking on chocolate chip cookies John had brought, dipping them in glasses of milk as they watched a movie being broadcast on the telly. It was some low-budget murder mystery, and the two both laughed at the copious amounts of "blood," and the lead actor's bouts of inappropriate emotion, and a genuine lack of talent in the supporting actor.

It was a shockingly normal evening. John almost thought it was a dream. And would have believed it was, if he didn't open the fridge to find it fully stocked.

The next day, Sherlock asked John for a larger portion than usual, claiming he was absolutely famished. John didn't hesitate to obey, and watched as Sherlock ate every last bite, obviously just as famished as he claimed to be. However, even a malnourished body—especially one that isn't used to large portions—can be warmed by a good amount of food in the stomach enough that the person will actually sleep. And Sherlock was no exception. Full and sleepy, he passed out on the couch, still in his jimjams, and didn't wake up for several hours.

When he did wake, he fixed himself a few slices of toast with jam and tea, eating nothing else the rest of the day. John didn't scold, because after eating so much at breakfast, Sherlock's stomach must have still felt quite full. He imagined it was a nice feeling for the consulting detective, after being denied food for so long, and proper satiation for longer.

At nine-thirty, Sherlock suddenly got up from his chair and walked into his room. John, watching an interesting show on the telly, didn't even blink twice, sure his flatmate would be retiring soon. John had learned that Sherlock became softer, kinder, and sleepier when he was well-fed, and so was unsurprised at the action. But after about twenty minutes, the door to his room swung open.

John looked, and if it weren't for the henna tattoos, he wouldn't have recognized his flatmate.

He'd put product in his hair to tame the curls into a business-like hairstyle, giving his cheeks a plumper look. The shirt, which fit him immaculately, was tight just at the shoulders, but loose from the chest down, making him look healthier than he was. The skinny jeans clung to his legs, his feet looking agile and able in the dark combat boots, the staring eyes on the backs of the shoes unsettling. What was even more terrifying was the dark, soulless eyes peering about from behind the mask, which had beautiful contours that just covered his cheekbones. The eyes were almost macabre in their mischievousness, and John could almost feel the allure of the strangeness. But there was something about the Raven—maybe it was the way his sweatshirt was tied about his waist—that indicated vulnerability. John laughed—Sherlock played the vulnerable very well.

"The theatre lost its best actor when you became a consulting detective," John explained, still laughing.

The Raven became Sherlock again his face crinkled into laughter. Changes in emotion were so sudden in him, that it might give anyone watching a severe case of whiplash. "Maybe, but this is more fun, less boring. What do you think?" He modeled a bit.

John shrugged. "It doesn't look like you, which I suppose is the point. I can't get over how scary those eyes are."

"Hm," Sherlock tightened the belt at his waist (the jeans were obviously made with a healthier Sherlock in mind, though they still clung to his athletic legs marvelously) and bit his lower lip as he frowned, pulling something from his pocket. "One last thing," And he strode to the mirror over the fireplace, uncapping the thing as he went.

John had dated enough women, and had grown up around two of them, to know what that was. "Eye liner?" He giggled. "Why do you own _eyeliner_?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, pushing the mask up into the beginning of his hairline for easy access. "Disguises, John. If you must know, I have an appalling collection of various kinds of makeup. Too much for even a homosexual male to own."

"Does that mean you're gay?"

"Never that." And yet, Sherlock could skillfully apply eyeliner. He could _feel_ John staring, so he huffed. "Oh, for God's sake. I went deep undercover as a follower of the gothic fashion to investigate a suspected case of vampirism. I had to learn to do makeup for that. I assume you've at least heard whispers of Szandor Steelcrow?"

John remembered hearing something about that just before he enlisted. Wait… "That was _you_?" The doctor sputtered, before he recognized the blue eyes staring at out at him from all the youtube videos about the suspected "vampire," and the protests about the "Goth culture."

Sherlock, watching him for a reaction, chuckled and resumed applying the eyeliner. "You see what I mean about my eyes being recognizable. A great number of the Black Widows have seen me face-to-face. If you can pull me out from a crowd in a poorly-filmed youtube video, they would see so much more in an instant."

"Right," John still couldn't get over the fact that Szandor Steelcrow—famous for clearing the name of Goths everywhere—and Sherlock Holmes were the same person. "But…the piercings—!"

Sherlock chuckled. "Mostly so my brother wouldn't recognize me. It didn't work, of course, but I had hopes. Oh, and all of them were fake. I have an inane amount of false piercings well-categorized in my drawers." With that, Sherlock pulled the mask back down over his face, carefully, adjusted it so that it rested comfortably, and reteased his hair where some strands were sticking up. "I imagine I won't be so well put-together after returning to the flat tonight," he predicted, untying the sweatshirt from around his waist and slipping into it as if the disguise was his familiar clothing. "Don't wait up." And then, he was gone. John almost expected him to caw like a bird.

And it was only after Sherlock was long gone that John thought this was a stupid idea.

He couldn't shake the feeling that Sherlock was walking right into a trap.

The Spider's Nest was a moderately-sized club with a basement and upstairs rooms for housing the people that lived there. A great red neon sign with a white web decorated with thousands of black baby spiders glittered attractively from overtop the door. Tonight was an I.D. night, and Sherlock brought his fake one (one of his many false ideas; a harmless individual, Thomas Sawyer,) and paid the bouncer at the door extra not to tell anyone who he was.

The inside of the club was thrumming with the constant beat of music. The whole place appeared to be one big dance floor, different color lights travelling across the floor. Sherlock was almost dizzy and disoriented from the start, except for the mob of people dancing to some rather catchy tune blasting from unseen speakers. Upon looking around, Sherlock noticed that there was a balcony over a stage with three silver poles on it. The balcony was small, barely enough to fit two average-sized people, and lit with red light. A single, throne-like red chair occupied most of the space. The stage was for pole-dancing, obviously. Sherlock's stomach did a nasty little flip inside him. Vulgar. The more he stayed here, the more he hated it.

But he had to let the Black Widows become comfortable with his presence before asking too many questions—and better yet, asking for Impala. On the wall was a gigantic whiteboard with a pen hanging from it. Obviously, it had encouraged graffiti from the public. There were hearts with arrows through them with first initials like "M & A 4-Ever," and doodles of silly faces, as well as the inaccurate depictions of the male reproductive organ that are bound to appear upon any public surface where one might scribble. Sherlock ignored the crude drawings (done in the erasable pen—he tested it by kindly erasing one of the penises) and instead focused on the more legitimate writing, written in black permanent marker in a lofty, but not unreadable, script:

_Rules! 3 _

_Any violators will be turned into shoes! 3_

_-No roughhousing. _

_-No scolding the beautiful Widows._

_-Offered sex is for consenting persons OF AGE ONLY! Must show proof of age._

_-Our bar, The Web, is proud to serve over 100 types of alcoholic and non-alcoholic beverages. We have a right to card you, even if you have already been carded._

_-The Black Widows will emerge from their lairs every hour on the hour. No poking around otherwise! They are very busy ladies! 3 8===D_ (the penis was not drawn in permanent marker)

_-Above all, enjoy yourselves!_

_-Daddy Spider_

Every hour, on the hour? Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket. It was a few minutes until eleven o'clock. Good. He went over to the bar and ordered a beer. He hated beer, but he needed to smell like the drink to be trustworthy enough to dance among the Widows. He had to be careful to not get sloshed, though, because, as Moriarty had correctly observed, he had a very low tolerance for the stuff. When the barkeep wasn't looking, Sherlock dipped two fingers into the drink and spread the stuff around his neck and at his collarbone, touching his lips with it before reluctantly taking a sip. His body rejected it all the way down, but luckily, it was staying where it was. Thank God. The last thing he wanted was to draw attention to himself.

Sherlock emerged from The Spider's Nest at two AM, at least three hours lost to him, and the party was still going on inside. Despite the fact that it had mostly been acting, he'd managed to get at least partially sloshed and would have a headache in the morning. He was stumbling unsteadily as he called a cab and could barely tell the cabbie his address before passing out in the back seat.

Tomorrow would be the day for collecting facts and figures and remembering what the hell had happened. Tonight was to congratulate himself on a job well done.

He was part of the inner circle.


	10. In the Zone

_I changed my plans for this chapter. Guess what I'd originally planned to do, if you want.-SH_

_**Chapter 10: In the Zone**_

Sherlock's stomach woke him up by growling painfully, insisting that it required sustenance right this second.

The consulting detective groaned to life like a car engine in cold weather, and realized immediately that not only did his stomach ache with impossible emptiness, but his head throbbed painfully, the ache seeming to drip behind his eyes, making them heavy. Sherlock also noted he had evidently crawled into his bed in 221B wearing his disguise. Sherlock sighed and undid the belt, unbuttoning the jeans, kneeling as he lifted his hips with a grunt, pulling them down before kicking them off unceremoniously until they were a lump at the foot of the bed. He would need to throw them in the laundry later. Maybe he could charm Mrs. Hudson into doing it for him.

Sherlock wrestled his way out of his shirt, thankful he'd had the sense to remove his mask and shoes. Satisfied, laying completely naked except for underwear, Sherlock closed his eyes and steepled his hands, bringing them to his lips as he thought deeply. He'd physically lost three hours because he'd made the unfortunate mistake of accepting one too many drinks from the Widows, but his mind, ever-active, drunk or sober, had stored it away for future reference. He only needed to concentrate hard enough to get at it.

But, as he tried to enter the serene doors of his mind palace, his stomach's angry growling yanked him back into the real world, leaving Sherlock hungry and flustered. He chuckled. Dancing had certainly taken a lot out of him! He needed a nice, warm, filling breakfast, packed with much-needed carbohydrates and dozens of calories. He'd have to ingest at least 2,000 to go dancing tonight!

_No, no, __**no**_! Sherlock ordered himself angrily. _Focus. __**Focus**__! Ignore your bloody transport for an hour. Just an hour._ His malnourished body ached at that, his stomach stopping its growling now, though it persisted with a dull, painful ache that would have distracted him…

But Sherlock simply closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths, and retreated into his mind palace. The events of the night flooded back to him—poor quality images because of his slightly addled conscious—but enough to notice he'd not gotten himself into any sticky situations. Sherlock was not a particularly noisy drunk, but his intelligence level lowered at least by half. He was prone to cursing, and his balance was far from perfect. But it seemed the ladies liked him. _Good_.

_The nine Black Widows he knew—easily identifiable by the black dresses and blood-red lipstick—as well as several others gathered around him in an appreciative group, much like (he imagined) a group of nervous, anxious fans. He got questions as to his identity, but refused to answer with any names except "Raven," and used his height to his advantage when the younger Widows tried to tug off his mask. They bought him drinks, and he bought them drinks. A few of them climbed up on the stage to dance on the poles and he threw money at them (Mycroft would not be pleased at the state of his expenses). He had acted the part well, but despite only taking little sips of the alcoholic drinks he was brought, one too many creamsickle sips, and he was over the moon. He quickly switched to dancing after that, which the women were more than happy to oblige to. He had four women around him at all times, one dancing against his front, the other at his back, and two more at his sides so that he was effectively boxed in. He remembered being touched, even below the shirt, remembered to show slight interest by groaning or otherwise responding appropriately, often earning him a giggle or two. He remembered feeling a scarf about his neck, which drew his attention to a young Indian girl whose long, dark hair was done up in braids which sort of curled back like the horns of an…impala. Impala! He'd met Impala last night!_

Sherlock sat up with a jerk, firmly pulled out of his mind palace by the realization. Everything else was lost to him, but what did it matter? He was home, safe and sound, and he'd met Impala!

Sherlock sat on the bed, slightly bent, his fingers tracing patterns in the sheets. He recognized by the dipping sun that it was around 2 in the afternoon. It was likely he'd not gotten much sleep—he couldn't remember what time he'd fallen asleep. But he reeked of alcohol and sweat and _women_—he could smell it on himself. Disgusting. He needed a shower.

The consulting detective pulled his lean, lanky body out of bed. He felt quite unsteady on his feet. There was the throbbing in his brain (was it literally pulsing?) and the persistent, though dull, ache in his abdomen (hunger, starvation, emptiness) adding to his discomfort. But there was nothing to be done about it now.

Sherlock sighed and went into the bathroom that adjourned his room. He relieved himself of his underwear after starting the shower and stood naked, shivering, with one hand thrust under the showerhead as he waited impatiently for the hot water to kick in. Meanwhile, he stared at his own reflection in the full-length mirror. The first thing he noticed were the dark contacts. How had he slept with them in? Sherlock remedied this by removing them immediately. He blinked. His eyes felt dry and raw, like he'd just been crying, but all in all, it was a small discomfort. Sherlock got into the shower, without once paying attention to the subtle muscles rippling in his long, thin arms, the protruding cheekbones and ribcage smacking of starvation, the long, muscular legs built up from years of running about catching criminals, the concave stomach that nearly met his spine, the tattoos that now covered him, and the necessary reproductive organ that served little purpose to a man such as himself.

Sherlock scrubbed himself first with ordinary soap, and then with his favorite body wash, until his skin was all pink, worried, and sensitive from the attention and the shower smelled of sweet vanilla. Then, Sherlock shampooed and, reassuring himself that he no longer reeked of his nemesis' hideout, he emerged, greeting the steam with a sharp inhale and a sigh of satisfaction.

While he dried off carefully, not really in any hurry, and wanting to be careful of his sensitive skin, anyway, Sherlock inspecting the cuts and bruises that had once littered his body. Or rather, the scars. The bruises had faded, although there were still some yellow patches on his chest, and the whip to the face had only caused him a split and bruised lip, which had healed rapidly. Scars here and there still struck white against the pink skin, due to both the scrubbing and the shower's heat, but Sherlock decided his skin was too pale to notice them. Besides, the tattoos drew the eye. That's what he'd really wanted them for in the first place.

Sherlock threw on an oversized v-neck tee shirt which sagged off his left shoulder and pulled on a pair of jeans. The jeans would usually hug his hips, but with his recent weight loss, he needed a belt to keep them there. They sagged around his ankles, but what did it matter? This was home, and John wouldn't care if he was casually dressed. Sherlock returned to the bathroom to brush his teeth and do a bit of shaving. After this was done, he sighed as his stomach growled again, reminding him that his transport needed maintenance. Immediately.

Well, he'd proved to himself he could ignore it, if necessary. That was enough until he'd gained back some weight and didn't slip out of his clothes anymore. Then, and only then, would he concern himself with weaning off a need for food, if he was still dependent on it.

Sherlock stretched his arms out way above his head as he walked out into the main part of the flat, grunting and unsuccessfully stifling a yawn as all his muscles fell into place. John was reading the paper, but he looked up as Sherlock stumbled into the kitchen. "Morning, Sherlock," to which he only got a sleepy grunt in reply. John turned back to the headlines, and sat forward with a jerk. "Sherlock!"

The consulting detective stopped, his hand on the fridge door. His friend's nervous-excited exclamation warranted attention. Hunger forgotten for the moment, he sprinted back and leaned automatically over the back of John's chair like an over-stimulated child. "What is it, John?"

Obediently, John handed him the paper. Sherlock straightened up and read the headline: _Spider's Nest Opens in London_. Hunger seeped out of him (malnutrition's ache be damned) as he read through the article, which talked of the grand opening a day before and the wild parties that extended until the wee hours of the morning. It was a normal article, except it didn't name the owner of the club, and stated that he "declined to comment." Sherlock fell into his chair and handed the paper back to John, looking more than a little pale.

John chose to ignore the sign of weakness in his friend. "Suspicious, isn't it?"

"Very." Sherlock curled his knees to his chest and matched finger pads to finger pads on each hand. "The motive is unclear. No one knows him as Moriarty—no one but you, Lestrade, Mycroft, and I, at any rate—why decline to comment? Why refuse to be named?"

"What does he own the club under?"

"Richard Brook," Sherlock responded in a cold, dangerous tone. "The man's a tyrant. If I could only understand _why._.."

"Could it be a trap?" John reflected on his thoughts last night, about the safety of his friend. "Could he have meant to lure you?"

"It's entirely possible, but I didn't come," Sherlock replied thoughtfully. "The Raven showed up, but not Sherlock Holmes. I doubt he'll be able to make a connection between my two identities. He'll believe I am still recovering, I imagine."

"As well you should be." John scolded. "Did you find the girl you were looking for?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes," Sherlock said distractedly. He was considering the options rolling around in his head. "Impala. I'll be talking to her tonight, getting some information, hopefully. If Rose says she can give me the answers I need, I'll stop at nothing to get them."

"Right," John smiled. "Well, I should let you eat. You must be famished." He got up with a grunt. "I've got to go into work for a few hours. Someone needs me to cover their shift. Don't do anything stupid." And with that, John was gone.

Sherlock made himself tea and drank at least twelve cups while John was out. But, too absorbed in the case, lost in information, he ingested nothing else all day.

_Headcanon says Sherlock's favorite scent is vanilla. With a sweet tooth like his, who could possibly blame him?-SH_


	11. Starships Were Meant to Fly

_**Chapter 11: Starships Were Meant to Fly**_

At eleven o'clock that evening, with clothes cleaned and pressed, the mask cleaned of sweat, the eyeliner dark and dangerous, and the contacts covering his recognizable eyes, the Raven walked into The Spider's Nest after flashing his I.D. at the bouncer, again paying him to keep his mouth shut. Most of the Widows were chatting up other men tonight, but five of them flocked to his side, purring and touching his shoulders and sides.

"Good evening, ladies," Raven murmured in his deep voice, letting his lips turn up into a shy smile.

The Widows giggled. Raven recognized them as Purr, Sparkle, Acid, Coca, and Malice. He pointed to each one in turn, which made them snuggle towards him in affection. Purr got behind him and wrapped her arms around his ribcage, making him gasp. "My, but you're skinny!" She giggled, standing on tiptoe to rest her head on his shoulder, her blonde pixie cut tickling his neck. "One would think you don't eat well at all!"

"Well, I have a high metabolism," Raven replied calmly, refusing the urge to jerk away from her grasp.

"I wish I did," pouted the brunette Malice.

Raven reached out a hand to brush against her cheek. "Nonsense, my dear Malice. You look beautiful." The Widow blushed and giggled, pulling her cheek from his hand. Purr let him go, and Raven relaxed again. Raven glanced over their heads, trying not to make it too obvious to the five girls in front of him. The bronzed Coca noticed, though.

"Looking for someone, Raven?" She asked tersely.

Raven pretended not to hear the hurt in her voice. "Actually, yes." He smiled viciously. "I happen to be looking for a young lady I met last night…Impala. Yes, that was her name." He nodded as if reassuring himself he hadn't forgotten. "May I see her?"

"She's right over there," Sparkle, another blonde with a pixie cut, pointed to the bar, where a young Indian girl was seated alone. Her braids were done up the same as last night, though tonight, she was wearing blue instead of gold. She looked like one might imagine a genie to look. There was a scarf tied around her thin waist. She was talking merrily to the barkeep, who seemed very interested in doing more than talking.

Raven thanked the Widows and strode towards her. "Miss Impala?"

Impala turned around and looked up with a start. "Oh! You scared me," she chuckled. Her voice still hinted of her original language, but it was obvious she hadn't been raised in Britain. "Can I help you?"

"Yes, actually," Raven sat down at the bar and propped his head on a bent elbow, effectively brushing off the barkeep, who sulked and went away. "I believe we danced last night. Allow me to introduce myself. I am—"

Suddenly, Impala was inches from Raven's face, her nose nudging against the front of the mask. "I know exactly who you are," she whispered, her arms lacing around his neck. Her head moved so that her lips brushed his ear and he shivered; he barely caught her whisper, "Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock jumped, nearly upsetting a nearby drink. "How do you know my name?" He whispered into her ear.

"Well, you certainly aren't the son of a wealthy family come for dancing and sex," Impala replied with a shrug.

"Is _that_ what they think of me?" Sherlock mused thoughtfully. "Interesting."

Impala giggled into her hand. "You have a way of carrying yourself, Mr. Holmes. I knew who you were from the start."

"Rose told me I could find you here," Sherlock straightened his mask. "She said you could give me answers."

Impala seemed taken aback. "Well, if you knew Rose, of course I can help you. But," and she drew near to him again, looking into his eyes with her dark drown ones. "The only way to get any privacy is in the Nests."

Sherlock caught her meaning. "The private sex rooms," he breathed.

"Yes."

Sherlock sighed. "You must know I really have no desire for anything of the sort, nor do I wish to take advantage of you." He pressed his lips against hers.

The kiss was brief, and them Impala pulled away. "My, you are inexperienced, aren't you?" She purred against his lips. "I have no desire for sex either, Mr. Holmes, but at least I have been kissed." She touched his lips again. "Do you trust me?"

"Do what you have to," Sherlock replied. "Anything. Everything." And the command sounded just desperate enough to give the appearance of desire.

Impala climbed onto his lap, straddling him. Sherlock held her easily, his eyes curious but understanding. Impala began to kiss the pressure points on his neck, taking the skin between her teeth just enough so that Sherlock would sigh and cry out from the worrying of the sensitive, ticklish area. Sherlock felt his heart racing, and he began to feel dizzy, though he wasn't sure why. It certainly wasn't arousal—nothing was stirring. Impala pulled away from his neck, looking at him panting and sweaty before her. "Did you like that?" She asked loud enough for surrounding patrons to hear. "Do you want more?" But while her smile was loving, her eyes were filled with their secret purpose.

In answer to the real question her saw in her eyes, Sherlock breathed out a husky: "Yes."

So Impala led him away to her Nest.

Sherlock was still feeling a little dizzy when Impala opened the door and led him down a long, warm corridor. Appreciative moans and sighs from men and women alike leaked out of the closed doors. Some doors were open but dark, where the Widows were out on the dance floor, selecting their prey. _How appropriate,_ Sherlock thought as he tried to fight the dizziness threatening to pull him into the darkness of a faint, _I see the reason for the name, now._

Impala led him to her Nest and closed the door. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief.

The room was full of the thick, heady smell of incense, coming from a small clutch of burning candles under the windowsill. The room was warm, the covers on the bed a soft pinkish-red, the plush carpet a deeper red, the walls a warm brown. Sherlock felt his dizziness fade away (though he knew not what had caused it).

Impala sat on the bed up by her pillows and Sherlock sat at the foot, a little unnerved to be speaking to a prostitute. The girl stretched and folded her hands in her lap. "Okay," she began. "Tell me what you want to know."

"What is Moriarty up to?"

"Straight and to the point? You are more direct than most men." Impala's voice was quiet, seductive. It was little wonder Moriarty sought to add her to his clutch of women. "I am afraid I know little, and the other Widows know less than I do. Our boss is not interested in women."

"Tell me what you know."

"I know he was derailed," Impala replied. "He had plans that depended on you dying in captivity. I'm not sure what they were, but they were dangerous, certainly. Our boss is desperate now. The club is a cover, a way to draw attention to his alias, Rich Brook, so he can work undisturbed."

"But he hasn't drawn attention to Brook. The club was in the papers today, and his name wasn't mentioned."

"He didn't want it in the papers. He's going to announce it tomorrow at the club."

"Do you know anything else about what he plans to do?"

"Rose told me he wanted to 'burn the heart' out of you. I assume that means you care for someone?"

Sherlock's eyes widened. _John_. "Is Moriarty here at the club?" He demanded.

"No. He won't be here until tomorrow."

Sherlock stood. "Thank you, but I have to go now."

Impala followed him. "If we act appropriately, I can take you out the back." She offered her hand. Sherlock took it.

In no time at all, they were at the back door to the club. Sherlock, remembering Rose's fate, looked seriously at Impala. "You won't get in trouble for this?"

"Hardly," Impala laughed. "Lovers get let out this way all the time. It's fine. Now, kiss me for the cameras."

Sherlock bent down and pressed a quick kiss against her lips. "Thank you, Impala."

When Sherlock got outside, he felt a thrumming weakness flowing through his body. He felt dizzy again, his head spinning wildly. He wondered what the problem was, until he remembered he'd eaten nothing all day. The ache in his stomach was now unbearable, and Sherlock felt lightheaded.

He was going to pass out. Great.

Sherlock hugged the wall and weakly pulled himself forward, hoping cameras weren't in place outside the establishment. He reached a dark, lonely alley and tried to reach for his mobile to call John.

But his weak body could take no more of this abuse. Lack of nourishment had taken a sudden toll on him. It was too much to bear.

Sherlock groaned and passed out.


	12. Let Slip the Dogs of War

_**Chapter 12: Let Slip the Dogs of War**_

Sherlock's first conscious thought was his best friend's name, which he very nearly shouted once he'd got control of his mouth again. "John," the name itself was muted, quiet, but filled with enough emotion that it echoed as a scream in his head. _Get up, get up, you idiot! John could be in danger!_ That was why he'd been in such a hurry to leave the club, after all.

And he wasn't far from the club. Sherlock spit gravel out of his mouth and closed his weary eyes a moment. The thudding bass from the club was still nearby, though muted. So, he was in the alley between the club and a sandwich shop, inside of which the owner owed him a favor. Sherlock himself was lying flat on the pavement, his arms lying bent at the elbows from when he'd tried to break his fall. And he'd fallen hard—he could almost feel the bruises forming already, thought maybe his ribs (no doubt in a weakened constitution from being broken, anyway) were broken. He sat up, the ache in his chest palpable. He smoothed his hand through his hair, pulling the hood off in the process. He began to feel dreadfully cold and shivered, the only light that of a streetlamp at some distance off, the glow golden and welcoming. Sherlock stood without difficulty, but his vision swam, his heart beating fast. Sherlock leaned heavily against the wall and closed his eyes again.

_Too much going on at once, at risk of over-stimulation. Calm down and go through the facts. Take everything slowly._

_Moriarty is not at the club. He could possibly strike Baker Street. But why? You have proved to be an opponent, whether or not you are well? No, he's not going to risk a trip to your flat. _Sherlock shook his head weakly, pressing his forehead against the cool, slightly damp brick, irrefutably dizzy. _Moriarty can wait._

_Your transport is in bad shape. Find every pain and label._

_Headache. You're dizzy. Could possibly be a concussion._

_Your hands are sore. Probably from breaking your fall._

_Your chest aches. Possibly from impact. Need to be examined; chest pain is not good._

_Your ribs and stomach hurt, both more internally than externally. Possible broken/fractured rib._

_Conclusion: You passed out from fatigue._

Sherlock opened his eyes and pulled away from the wall, still ridiculously cold. Now he remembered why he loved to wear that coat of his—it wasn't only for looks. Pulling the sweatshirt around himself, he walked out to the main road, checking for his mask as he did so. Good. It didn't feel broken.

Sherlock took the first taxi he saw. "221 Baker Street," he croaked to the cabbie.

It was almost four in the morning by the time Sherlock managed to climb all seventeen steps leading to 221B. He opened the door and nearly crumpled to the floor from sheer exhaustion. Taking out his mobile, he used it as a torch to find his way about, treading carefully in the darkness of the flat. Finally, he flicked a lamp on and collapsed into his chair, breathing heavily.

His stomach hurt, the pain unbearable. Sherlock moaned softly in the back of his throat, drawing his arms protectively around the searing pain emanating from his torso. He pulled his knees up to his chest, his head back against the top of the chair, eyes closed. He moaned again just because he could, wincing slightly from the sharp jab of pain that resulted. He was hungry, thirsty, and achy, but he had some important information.

He needed food. His stomach's consistent pain was enough.

He needed water. His throat burned with immense thirst, his voice raspy when he dared to speak.

He needed tea. Anything that would warm him from the inside out.

He needed medical attention. He couldn't be sure of the seriousness of his wounds.

He needed backup and support. Eventually, the official force would have to get involved. Right now, he'd have to settle for an army doctor.

He needed John.

Sherlock took a deep breath before rising slowly, moving ever inch of him methodically and easily, eyes shut tight against the strain in his muscles. He was sore from the escapades of the night before and weak from tonight's shenanigans. He wondered again how he'd ever managed to keep conscious, to keep his brain sharp, while his body starved.

No time for that now. Sherlock used the railing to pull himself up the stairs to John's room as if he were climbing up a rope to safety, his breathing labored, limbs trembling because he was so weak.

He'd done _far_ too much on an empty stomach tonight, and _far_ too much for a poorly nourished one the night before. His head seemed to flood again, and he waited for the dizziness to pass, the ache sullen in his chest.

John's room was unlocked, so Sherlock invited himself in. Even while weakness took away his usual tact and grace, the creaking of the door didn't wake his sleeping friend. The loud thud of a body hitting the floor, now that was enough to wake the sleeping doctor.

John awoke with a start, battle-ready, something the army had instilled in him. He suspected that would never wear off, but with Sherlock around, it was almost an advantage. The doctor looked at what had awoken him—"Sherlock!"—and leapt out of bed to tend to the heap of clothes and limbs lying on his bedroom floor.

"Sherlock," John hissed, quickly maneuvering the limp body over onto its back so he could examine properly, and checked for vitals as he talked. "Sherlock. Come on, you git. Wake up! _Wake up_, God damn you!" He didn't realize he was shouting until the cold hand of his flatmate reached up to touch his face before quickly moving to his shoulder. John felt an electric shock run through him from even just a single touch—Sherlock was just _too_ cold.

"Don't _shout_, John," Sherlock coughed, the disguised eyes holding his flawlessly, even as John looked away to help him sit up. Sherlock hissed as he was moved, and the doctor was quick to apologize—even quicker than Sherlock's "It's quite all right, John."

"God, but those eyes distract me," John chuckled. "How'd you bang your ribs?"

"Are they broken?"

"Cracked a bit—you won't be doing sit-ups for a lark. Answer me." John sat back on his heels, waiting.

Sherlock, who was propped up against the bed, tilted his head back and felt the cheat duvet beneath his dark curls. He closed his eyes, wondering why John was still being absolutely Spartan—the military can't mess you up so badly, can they? "I don't do sit-ups, John." The offhand comment earned him an affectionate chuckle, which made Sherlock smile as well. He lifted his head, his arms automatically converging around his concave stomach. "Don't work out much, really, now that I think about it." He shrugged noncommittally.

Anyone else would have been amazed at how conversational Sherlock was being. But John knew that Sherlock was out of sorts. He could almost _feel_ Sherlock trying to sort his thoughts, which was why his mouth was running away with him at the moment. "Sherlock," he scolded, "focus. Why were you banged-up?"

Sherlock reached his hands back, tilting his head forward as his hands worried at the black straps that fixed the mask to his face. He gently removed it and put it neatly on the bed by his left ear. "I fainted." He explained simply.

John was not as surprised as he should have been. He was wondering how long it would take for his friend to collapse, the way the man pushed his body to the limits—how the great detective's stomach would _growl_ as the case was closed!—but he went on, anyway. "Any idea why?"

Sherlock clicked his tongue impatiently, in his you-really-ought-to-know-that way. "Haven't eaten all day. Ate too little yesterday. Combined with a general malnutrition—"

But John interrupted him. The army doctor's hands clamped down hard on the bony shoulders and Sherlock wriggled because he didn't like the urgency, the worry he felt in the desperate, rough grip. "You," John took a loud breath through his nose, his blue eyes dangerous. "You…haven't eaten…all _day_? _Sherlock_!" And he gave his friend a rough shake, which was enough to derail Sherlock, multiplying his dizziness tenfold. Yes, John was worried. Sherlock could deduce as much as he put a hand to his head to steady it. John wouldn't violently shake someone who was injured unless he was concerned for their wellbeing.

It wouldn't be the first (or the last, Sherlock thought with a smile as he watched the army doctor pace the room up and down, his face pouty and angry) time John had given Sherlock a shake because he was worried about his health.

"I ought to commit you," John stomped into position, arms akimbo, legs triangular. He was Captain Watson again, addressing a private who was clearly out of line. His frown indicated the rough lines of the military captain in him, but there was warmth and feeling in his eyes, and Sherlock was never scared. Intimidated into obeying, certainly. This tiny tank had made Sherlock do a lot of things he wouldn't normally do (ingesting sustenance at least three times a week being one of them, cases usually excluded), but oddly enough, Sherlock didn't mind.

It was nice to be mothered every so often.

And knowing there was nothing he could do but appeal to the warmth hidden inside that fret, Sherlock pulled a wide-eyed pout and grimaced as another shock of rain raged through his body.

John sighed and helped him up. "Take out those damn contacts and take a shower," he commanded, his voice rough and unwaivering as he wrapped a strong, capable arm around his flatmate's waist, pulling him to his side. Sherlock complied, easing into the position by throwing an arm around John's shoulders, letting himself be supported by the stronger man. John deposited him in the bathroom before turning to leave. "I'll go start something warm for you to eat"—he didn't miss Sherlock lick his lips—"and then, you can tell me everything."

Sherlock nodded, and began to undress.

Within half an hour, Sherlock was seated in his chair, a warm bowl of pasta with lots of butter and cheese and a hint of salt in his lap, which was hastily being devoured. A cup of tea sat steaming on the table beside him, waiting to be drank, as well as a thick slice of chocolate cake someone at work had given John in celebration of her promotion. Sherlock might have been able to deduce by the moistness of the cake, the swirls in the icing, and the filling who exactly had given John the cake, but with the hawk-eyed look of unadulterated hunger present in those pale eyes when he looked longways at the cake, it was clear he wasn't going to deduce anything past how it tasted while it traveled to his belly.

John let Sherlock swallow down the rest of the pasta while nursing a cuppa of his own. When Sherlock reached for the cake, the army doctor felt free to speak again. "And so?"

Sherlock carved a piece of the cake with the side of his knife and brought it to his lips. With meditative and practiced grace, he put the fork into his mouth, dragging it out slowly, a hum of appreciation at the cake's incredible taste vibrating in his throat, closing his eyes. He swallowed carefully before speaking. "Impala doesn't know much. She thinks Moriarty may be out to get someone I care for. That is the short version, at any rate."

"And the long version?"

"Will come in due time," Sherlock's smile was warm, appreciative. "I am too weak to recount every detail for your silly blog."

"Of course." John settled in his chair. "_Do_ you care for anyone?"

Sherlock swallowed another bite and rolled his shoulders. "Not in the romantic sense, but certainly, yes. I am weaker than my brother in that aspect. Mycroft cares for no one."

"He cares for you."

Sherlock snorted, waving his hand dismissively. "Only so that his own image is not ruined by my antics. And certainly, he does not wish me ill, but that alone is not enough to define 'care,' don't you agree?"

John thought, and then nodded. "I see what you mean." And then, the full hit of Sherlock's statement washed over him. And he felt warm and soft inside, like pure sunshine had filled his chest. "Me?" He thought of the self-sacrifice at the pool, the pride in which Sherlock spoke of their partnership, the trust the man put in him (that alone must have taken a lot).

Sherlock nodded, licking a bit of icing off the next bite of cake before it disappeared forever into his craw. "Yes, you. Oh, don't be so surprised. I am aware that my heart is a weakness, but one I am happy to compensate for. That you should be a part of it is…natural. I should think best friends are a lot like that." There was uncertainty in the smile, as if he was afraid he was saying the wrong thing.

John was touched. "Y-yer. Thank you, Sherlock." He wasn't sure if he _should_ even thank the consulting detective, but decided it didn't matter.

Sherlock finished off his cake and yawned, stretching gingerly. "I need to sleep for a few hours, at least," he noted, feeling the ache in his muscles as he stood.

John nodded, standing as well. He could get a few more hours of sleep. And anyway, Sherlock felt safe enough to sleep: the odds were in their favor. "Night, Sherlock." He called from the stairs.

Sherlock's voice was warm as he answered with a soft: "Goodnight, John."

_And weeeeee the brotherhood of man! Or men. Or Holmes and Watson. Yeah, the last one. Let's go with that. The johnlock fangirl in me was like: "now KISS" after I wrote Sherlock's little friendship speech, but this is not Johnlock! _

_If you squint really hard, it could be MorMor, though, don't you think?-SH_


	13. Forever and a Day

_**Chapter 13: Forever and a Day**_

"You're going to eat," John commanded with all the force of an army captain, used to being in charge, as he stormed into the kitchen that morning.

Sherlock was inclined to agree. If his transport had been damaged enough to cause him to faint, he concluded that food was a necessity. And besides, he was hungry, anyway. But he couldn't let his doctor know that he agreed with him. "Is that a threat, doctor?" He asked in amusement.

"Only if you don't eat."

"So if I don't?"

John smirked to himself as he bent over the skillet, cooking eggs and sausage for two. "Well, I'd probably force-feed you. And I'm not below putting sugar in your food so you'll eat it."

Sherlock chuckled, digging his nose between his thumbs and palms as he tilted his head back. The adrenaline he'd been running on since Rose's death had faded with his faint last night. He had no energy, no willpower, left in him to do anything but recover.

Except he _had_ to solve the case. Because if he didn't, another young girl would die. And Sherlock liked to keep his hands free of blood. Despite all he pretended like anyone who died on his watch was nothing to him, it actually made him sad. Not during the case, mind you, but afterwards, when there was time to mourn the dead.

He'd woken up that morning sore and hungry and weak. His body was ten times heavier, his eyes fighting to stay open. _God_, he was abnormally tired. But why?

John was scrambling eggs over the stove, bacon sizzling in the oven and toast in the toaster. "So, you're not going out tonight, right?"

"Hm?"

"To the club. You're not going, are you?" John was worried for his friend. Sherlock had fainted, after all, and looked all the more pale and sick against his dark chair. He lifted his head and glanced into the living area to look at his friend. Sherlock sat up with sudden strength, his eyes bright.

"Of course I am," Sherlock replied calmly. "I don't have much of a choice. Moriarty's going to open the club tonight. I _have_ to go."

John was about to argue when the door burst open. Detective Inspector Lestrade doubled over, his hands on his knees, panting hard. "Sherlock!" He wheezed. "I have to tell you—!"

"_Sit down_, Lestrade, for Christ's sakes!" Sherlock waved his hand languidly, his eyes closed peacefully. But his voice was sharp and commanding. Lestrade took a seat at the table. "Now, what is it?" Sherlock tilted his head back so that he got a view of the inspector upside down. His head was spinning, his body protesting. Inside his head, Sherlock was begrudging the inspector's annoying timing.

"Lestrade!" John growled, stomping back into the living room. Sherlock looked at his friend and smirked. "Captain Watson" had made an appearance once again. Maybe _he_ could get Lestrade to leave so they could feast upon their breakfast in peace. The smell of the cooking eggs and meat made Sherlock's belly give a loud, greedy growl, and Sherlock frowned, rubbing a hand against the concave surface of his stomach.

"I ought to throw you out!" John was still shouting, though Lestrade could see there was worry hidden behind the anger. _What's the git done now?_ "Sherlock needs to _rest_!"

"There's something he ought to know!" Lestrade snarled. He _needed_ Sherlock. And Sherlock had been well enough to be on the case a few days ago, so what was so different about right _now_? Sure, he knew the bloke was suffering, and maybe he looked a little paler than usual, but so what? London needed Sherlock Holmes' great brain. "And he needs to tell me about The Spider's Nest!"

"Well, it can wait for breakfast!" John yelled. "Sherlock hasn't—"

"All right, _all right_," Sherlock raised his hands up in the air, his ears ringing from the grown men's argument. "You two bellowing bulls are making my head spin, and it's quite painful." He leveled a scolding glance at the two men. Lestrade hung his head, and John went to check on the food. "You may talk to me and ask me questions, Lestrade, but you'll have to wait until I eat something," Sherlock slumped in his chair and whimpered softly, massaging his temple. "I barely ate anything yesterday, and I'm as weak as a kitten." He accepted eggs, toast, and bacon from John with a weak smile and trembling hands, quickly falling upon his food. John hadn't served himself, and Lestrade hadn't been offered.

John wasn't concerned with the (as far as he was concerned) unwelcome intrusion of Greg. Right now, he was supervising Sherlock, making sure that the detective's appetite stayed steady. When he was satisfied with Sherlock's performance, he seemed to come back to himself, leaving the thick army exterior on the battlefield. "Coffee or tea, Lestrade?"

"Coffee sounds great. Thanks." Lestrade replied, leaning eagerly towards Sherlock as the consulting detective stuffed the remaining food into his mouth, leaving behind an empty plate. Sherlock stretched and John went to fetch a round of coffee for all of them (except he wasn't going to give any to Sherlock—what he got was sugared tea, no buts about it).

"All right," Sherlock said at length. "What?"

"What did you find out about The Spider's Nest?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's a dance club with a bar. Bouncers are easily bribed. The barkeep is cheap and will bleed you for every penny. There's a pole dance-strip tease where the Black Widows take off their clothes. Sex is offered in private rooms called Nests. Each Black Widow is issued one."

"And these 'Black Widows'?" Lestrade asked over his coffee as John handed it to him before sitting with his own cup and handing Sherlock his.

Sherlock sipped his tea delicately. "Most of them are of average height, thin, and between the ages of 25-40. I can only identify fifteen of them by name, but there are at least eight more. They've taken a liking to my disguise," he chuckled. "There are exceptions to the rule, but the girls are of consenting age."

"Is there rape?"

Sherlock scrunched up his face and rolled his shoulders. "Not that I could see. Impala, my voice on the inside, is only sixteen—only just able to consent, unless the laws have changed."

"Impala?" Lestrade sat back in surprise. "You have an _informant_?"

"Yes. She's to be Rose's replacement as a Widow."

"You mean she isn't one?"

"She doesn't wear black, if that means anything, which I'm certain it does. She's in training—though in what, I'm not sure."

"Sex? Killing?"

"Both, I should say."

"Both?!"

"Relax, inspector," Sherlock chuckled, finishing his tea and curling into his chair, resting his head on the armrest. "I'm going to get her out of that club before Moriarty can train her."

"How's that?"

"Data, data, data," Sherlock mumbled sleepily. "I can't make bricks without clay." His eyes closed and he stopped talking, his breathing calm and soft. Lestrade thought he'd fallen asleep and was about to go when the man sprang up like a jack-in-the-box. Both the officer and the doctor jumped as Sherlock spoke. "Oh! You wanted to say something, Inspector?"

"Ah, yes," Lestrade rubbed a hand on the back of his neck. "The building that's being used as The Spider's Nest is actually where we picked you up."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Really, now? Well, this changes everything."


	14. Fool's Paradise

_Last chapter was not up to my usual quality. My apologies. Hopefully, we won't have any more of that.-SH_

_**Chapter 14: Fool's Paradise**_

"What do you mean it changes everything?" Lestrade asked impatiently. "How could it possibly change _anything_?"

"For one thing, it shows that Moriarty has not left his comfort zone." Sherlock replied. "He may have used the basement cells for other prisoners during the short time period between my escape and the opening of The Spider's Nest. If not, there may be clues to Moriarty's plans that I missed while imprisoned. Tonight is the underage night at the club," the consulting detective sighed. "The youth of London will be dancing right into Moriarty's hands."

"Good God," Lestrade murmured. "What about the other aspects of the club?"

"I believe that 'Richard Brook' will not have his establishment closed down by having a live strip-tease. Everything else will take place behind closed doors. Alcohol consumption will be monitored, and only consenting adults will partake in both."

"I'm very tempted just to arrest him now."

Sherlock shook his head. "You have no proof of anything, except the victim's testimony, and I refuse to testify against him."

Lestrade growled. "Why? Can't be bothered to take part in the trial?"

Sherlock's cold eyes narrowed dangerously, making the police detective regret his words. The deep baritone was malicious and thick. "You will remember _I_ was the sufferer of the worst of Moriarty's torture. It is painful to relive, and certain details are quite a blow to my personal ego. While that may not matter in a courtroom, I do not wish the world to know that I, Sherlock Holmes, was incapacitated for twenty-one days."

"Twenty," Lestrade corrected him in a small voice.

Sherlock jumped at being corrected, his eyes wide open for a second. Then, he narrowed them again, clasping his hands at his chest. "Quite right. Twenty. Also, court is an inconvenience. I would rather not testify without conclusive proof. You, inspector, must not let your inane sense of justice run away with you. Even someone with _your_ inferior intellectual quality must know there is very little evidence pointing to James Moriarty as the perpetrator."

Lestrade was angry because of Sherlock's insults, but he considered himself properly (and thoroughly) chastised. John seemed stunned into silence.

Sherlock inhaled a breath before continuing. "Moriarty has also taken great pains to assure everyone that his name is actually Richard Brook, a nightclub owner and possibly an enterprising businessman a little too obsessed with sex and with the seedy underbelly of our _fair_ city before that. I'm almost certain that the basement where I was kept led, via twenty-nine stairs exactly, to a dingy, low-budget office building. I cannot be certain upon this point because I was unfortunately unconscious due to fatigue during my rescue. Now I grow weary, Lestrade, so if that is all…?" And his unearthly eyes connected straight with the officer's dark ones, holding the gaze steadily, hypnotically, dangerous in the frightfully thin face.

Lestrade cleared his throat. "Right. I'm off out. Let me know if you find anything of interest." And the police inspector went with the same attitude as a scolded puppy, tail between his legs.

As soon as he'd gone, Sherlock's body turned to mush in his chair. He slouched down until his body had become nearly a line from torso to knees, his long arms hanging off the sides of the chair, his chin touching his breastbone. He was exhausted. He didn't _want_ to do anything.

Oh no. Sherlock forced himself to sit up. "It's the food," he murmured, quite forgetting John was sitting across from him.

"What, Sherlock?" John asked.

"The _food_!" Sherlock sat forward, elbows on knees. Then, he got up and began to—well, "pace" would be the wrong word; more like "plough"—through the flat. "The food's making me weaker than ever, and my _desire_," and here he wrinkled his nose, "is distracting and overwhelming and just _unbearable_! And all the wretched _sleep_ I've been getting is even worse!" And he threw himself with utter violence into the couch, wincing because he's upset his fragile ribs, and then thumped at the cushions in frustration. "Bloody, sodding _transport_ doesn't give a fucking _damn_ that _I_ am fucking _important_ to the city's wellbeing. Fuck it, I'm never eating again." And he groaned, covering his face with the union jack pillows, muffling his anguished moans and defeated sighs.

John blinked, because surely all of this was uncalled for, but thought that maybe—just maybe—Sherlock was a hero after all deep down. And his stubborn, childish viewpoint on such matters was trying its best to prove to him it wasn't true. He started with a valid, logical point. "But Sherlock, you _fainted_. Nobody faints unless they really need nourishment. And you _do_."

"I don't," Sherlock mumbled in protest from beneath the pillow, "I'm perfectly fine."

"That doesn't sound very logical," John murmured encouragingly. Sherlock lifted his head up, removing the pillow. His eyes darted about for a second before he tossed the pillow to his armchair. It settled perfectly in the center. Satisfied, Sherlock lay back down as John went on. "You've barely had any time to rest at all since your return to Baker Street. You had two days where you were perfectly happy to just sit about like a lazy wanker and do nothing!" Sherlock chuckled. "And I'll bet you miss that! More to the point, it's your malnourishment that's got you feeling sluggish and slow. Food's got nothing to do with it. In fact, I think food just fueled your outburst." John felt the thrill of being correct in his deductions (very rare in this flat, with this flatmate) as Sherlock seemed to consider this. "Recovery is called recovery for a reason, Sherlock. It's a long, arduous, boring, dull process, but in the end, you'll feel refreshed and ready to take on Moriarty. And whatever else comes your way."

"I do miss it, John," Sherlock replied as he closed his eyes, his hands restfully clasped on his chest. His voice sounded morose and slightly sad. Certainly close to tears. "I miss just lying about like a lazy wanker." He and John giggled. "I miss watching telly and sleeping all day and just mulling about on the Internet and reading and eating and doing _normal_ things. And I like being cared for." He sat up and smiled at John in one graceful, fluid motion. "And I appreciate your doing it. So thank you." But his face fell. "Deductions hurt," he mused.

"I'd imagine they do," John agreed, rising to sit by his flatmate. "I'll bet they take every ounce of concentration and strength you've got, genius or not."

Sherlock looked at him, and suddenly, John saw everything. He saw a very vulnerable young man, whose clothes were far too big, whose face was far too skinny, whose eyes shone with tears waiting to fall, whose lips trembled, whose entire body was shaking because he was just so damn cold. Who was tired and hungry and perhaps more than a bit sick. Who needed care and bedrest and warm meals with snacks in between. And the doctor put a strong hand on Sherlock's thigh.

Sherlock leaned his head on John for just a fraction of a second before both men pulled away. Neither of them had any sort of feeling other than friendship for each other, but the two of them were far too used to platonic behavior by now to stop. "I'm tired, John," Sherlock admitted, and John knew he didn't mean he wanted to sleep, although the man could do with a kip, certainly.

"I know, Sherlock." John patted his friend on the back and stood with a grunt. "Tea and biscuits?"

"Please," Sherlock replied, rising from the couch with a warm smile, following his flatmate into the kitchen. John fussed about with the tea, and Sherlock noticed John's uneaten breakfast. He listened for the inevitable complaint from the doctor's stomach, but none came. Odd. "You didn't eat." It wasn't a question.

"I lost my appetite," John shrugged. "I don't usually eat in front of anyone, other than you, who's not eating, too. Except when we're in a rush."

"Mmm," Sherlock leaned against the counter. "You know what? I'll get the tea. You warm up your breakfast in the microwave and eat."

John shrugged, but obeyed. He wasn't one to question any of Sherlock's odd kindnesses. After heating up his food, he took it into the living area and began to eat. Sherlock hummed out a piece he'd been composing before his capture, tapping out the time on the countertop as he poured the tea. He found the biscuits in their tin (chocolate, his favorite) and set them out on a plate. He balanced said plate atop his mug and walked slowly, skillfully, into the living room. He put the two mugs down on the table, handing John one and claiming the other, setting the biscuits on a small table between them. They sipped and nibbled in silence for a while (Sherlock did most of the nibbling because John was still eating his breakfast). Time seemed to stand still, or at least pass with hideous sloth, until John finally spoke.

"I want to go with you."

"John—"

"No," John insisted firmly, and Sherlock knew when he wasn't going to win a fight, just as the opposite was true. So he shut his mouth and listened. "I don't mean you've got to take me inside the club. I know you prefer to work alone under cover. I mean, I want to be nearby in case you need me. Outside, in a car, wherever. I _don't_ want you going there alone, walking into Moriarty's web all by yourself. I want to help you. So don't push me away. Don't you _dare_. Because I worried about you night and day. I barely slept."

"Okay, John." Sherlock nodded.

But John wasn't finished. "I don't care how gay it sounds. I need to make sure you're okay. And I don't care how you feel about that, either."

"That's fine," Sherlock replied with a shrug and John was stunned that it was really that easy. "Not tonight, though," And John groaned. Because he was expecting that, really. Really, he should've seen that coming.

"But tomorrow." Sherlock answered. "Tonight, there will be no danger. I'll be in and out in two hours. No, tomorrow night will be dangerous. And then, I'll need all the help I can get."


	15. No More Cakes and Ale

_**Chapter 15: No More Cakes and Ale**_

Raven had been dancing for about an hour now, refusing to accept drinks from the Widows dancing around him. He was reluctantly getting addicted to the rushing beat of the club music, dancing gracefully to the beat. He was the "man of the hour," an aura of mystery about him because of the mask attracting the opposite sex. Raven was looking around for the young woman who knew his true identity and who would lead him about without question. He needed Impala, but he couldn't see her over the crowd, and the other Widows around him were distracting him.

As usual, he was boxed in, five Widows hovering about him, buzzing like annoying insects. The women in close proximity to him switched off, so there were always new girls dancing on him. Presently, Acid, the girl dancing at his front, placed cool hands on his where they rested on her hips and then turned around in his arms. "You seem distracted tonight," She shouted over the music, her cold green eyes seductive, her red curls sticking up because of the heat.

"Do I?" Raven asked as he dodged her questing fingers reaching up to undo his mask.

"Yes, you do," Acid pouted, stroking his jaw line. "Did Impala show you a good time? She's so young and new," Even though emotion could hardly be displayed through this sort of shouting, it was obvious Acid was disdainful.

Raven knew how to play his part well, and his soft lips curled into a smile. "I'm sure you're twice as good."

Acid purred warmly. "Maybe I'll take you for a ride."

"Maybe," Raven tried to remain aloof, but he was panicking inside. _What kind of mess have I gotten myself into?_ He didn't like the idea of sex, case or not. And it's not like Acid would tell him anything, so the sex wouldn't be worth it. And then he could get found out and possibly recaptured, and that really wouldn't do at all. Not when he had no clue about Moriarty's plans for the city. He checked his phone. Curious. He had service here. If this was the same building Moriarty had imprisoned him in, then…?

But Raven's thoughts were interrupted. The music stopped abruptly and the strobe lights ceased. The light illuminating the chair on the balcony brightened, and a drum roll could be heard over the speakers. By now, everyone had stopped dancing and was standing still as stone in confusion or anticipation. The Widows gave him distance, and he looked around. There were a good number of teenagers here to dance, but the majority of the patrons looked to be young bachelors and groups of single women. Some patrons were getting a bit tipsy, supported by friends or exiled to the outskirts, crying into their beers or throwing up in the restrooms, passed out on the floor. He was startled by loud clapping and cheering. He looked up, and his eyes widened.

Moriarty. The consulting criminal had not bothered to put product into his hair, as it was poofy and spiked, though his face was still immaculate, devoid of facial hair. He was dressed in an electric blue tee shirt and black skinny jeans, holding a red drink in a fancy glass (Raven thought it was a bloody mary, but he couldn't be sure). He was smiling widely, a friendly, all-encompassing smile. It made Raven's stomach turn sour, and he resisted the urge to clench at it. Moran was by his side, the passive half to Moriarty's crazy energy. His hair and outfit was unchanged, except the band on the tee shirt was different than it had been before. He looked infinitely bored, holding a beer in one hand, an unchanging frown souring the thin face.

Moriarty produced a microphone from the chair and turned it on, tapping against it absently to test it. "Can you lot hear me okay?" He began. Cheers greeted him, but Raven stayed silent, crossing his arms in disinterest and frustration. To anyone looking, he just wanted to dance some more and maybe have some sex. But in actuality, he was listening intently. Moriarty raised his hand for silence before continuing. "Good evening, all my lovely little spiders!" There were some cheers from the audience at this. "Welcome! Welcome to my humble nest! My name is Richard Brook, and I am the owner of The Spider's Nest." Appreciative clapping followed. Raven absently clapped, squirreling away the information he'd been presented so far. "I see we have some spiderlings here tonight, out enjoying the dance floor." There were some cheers and clapping. "Come on, then! Who's under eighteen? Give us a shout!" A group of teenagers somewhere near the front of the room clapped and shouted praise. "Thank you, thank you! Now," and Moriarty gestured to Moran, "Sebby and I would like to thank everyone for their patronage. Because it is underage night, we cannot provide any of the stripping shows tonight." There were some groans and drunken mumblings. "Yes, yes, such a pain." Moriarty absently took Moran's hand, and the man made no objection, other than to sigh and look more bored. "But my Widows are out on the dance floor! Here to entertain! Ladies, where are you?" The Widows cheered. "There they are! Well, if you'd like to have some fun later on, just call on a Black Widow! Anyway, I'm rambling on." He chuckled, raising his glass. "Let's get back to the party!" And he chugged the remainder of his drinks as cheers and clapping erupted from the crowd, the music starting up again. Raven recognized the tune, but was pulled from his musings by a warm hand on his wrist.

It was Impala, dressed in red tonight. "Good evening, Raven," she shouted. "Shall we chat?"

Raven nodded and offered his hand. He led Impala over to a quiet part of the bar and Impala straddled him, he holding her weight easily. It wasn't a comfortable position by any means, but it was easier to converse, and easier to explain a sudden disappearance. Even though he'd only been under cover a few days, Raven felt himself falling into habits that seemed familiar. He was beyond thinking this was weird.

Impala pressed her lips to his ear, making him shiver. "Why are you here, Mister Holmes?"

Sherlock held her head with his hand and moved between her hair to get at her ear. "I need to see the basement."

Impala moaned and pressed her lips against his ear. Sherlock moaned and held her closer as she spoke: "Why?"

Sherlock sighed and touched her lips with his before moving to her ear. "I was imprisoned there, supposedly. Confirming facts."

Impala snorted and touched his lips with hers, her dark eyes dissecting him. Sherlock's eyes pierced just as well, the dark abyss threatening when he glared. "You're no good at pretending, Mister Holmes." The woman smiled and took his hand. "Come on, then."

Sherlock allowed himself to be led, pretending to be in a drunken stupor. He swung his head around to observe the other patrons dancing wildly to the music, and saw exactly who he was looking for: Moriarty. Dancing rather intimately with Moran. Not that it was any of his business, but Sherlock hoped one or both men were drunk. Feelings were nasty buggers, and the last thing one wanted to do was anger the trained sharpshooter.

As the club music faded to a thumping pulse, Sherlock dropped his act and retrieved his hand from the girl with a violent yank. He didn't like to be touched, and the intimate contact disgusted him. It was all fine and good for the disguise, but he didn't have to pretend around her. Impala didn't seem hurt.

They were in a different part of the club, passing a back office that belonged to the consulting criminal, and then entering a damp, dark, cold hallway. Sherlock slipped into his sweatshirt and zipped it up, hugging his ribs to keep warm. It was a futile effort—his teeth still chattered in his head, almost distracting him completely. But as he looked around at the dark, mistreated concrete walls, the leaky windows, and the unholy amount of insects and arachnids, he realized he recognized his surroundings.

_Sherlock paused in his walking to stare into the eyes of a large brown spider peering cheekily at him from a crevice in the wall. Its long, hairy legs trembled slightly as Sherlock scrunched his nose at it. After a moment of breath, he felt a soft punch to his back. _

"_Keep moving," purred the consulting criminal, his breath hot and damp on Sherlock's shoulder. _

_Sherlock scowled and faced front again, resisting the urge to wriggle his fingers, feeling the extra heat of the cuff-like hold of the smaller hand on his wrists. He was still hot from adrenaline, happy only that his heart was safe._

"There will be a door soon," he murmured, as he tried to conjure the image of his warm wool coat, imagine the heat he would feel while inside of it, warm like a burning fire. It really was intolerably cold and dank here.

Sherlock was sensitive to extreme cold and extreme heat, particularly to sudden changes in temperature. Entering a warm house during the winter made him feel stuffy and hot, while entering a cold one during the summer caused him to reach for his coat. His transport was such a silly, delicate thing at times.

"This is familiar to you, then?" Impala asked, her steps light and childish. "You're right. Here it is." She presented a worn wooden door with a padlock. "I don't have the key to it, though, and it's locked."

Sherlock crouched and investigated the lock. "It won't be hard to pick. Give me a minute." With that, he removed a paper clip from the pocket of his jeans, unbent it, and slipped it into the lock. After fifty nine seconds exactly, the padlock clicked open. Sherlock grasped the handle and walked down the stairs.

_There were twenty-nine steps. Step number five creaked horribly and step number seven was very wet and slippery. The rest of the stairs were somewhat normal. At step sixteen, the staircase leaned slightly right, and then on step twenty-five made a sharp turn left into a damp, cold, lonely room lit only by a gently swinging, bare light bulb with a single jail cell in it. It was this towards which Moriarty now led him, his knuckles pressing harder than necessary into Sherlock's lower back._

Sherlock walked into the room, and crinkled his nose. The room smelled of vomit and body odor and human fecal matter. It also smelled of death and, faintly, of honey and strawberry filling. The jail cell was closed, now, but no one had been down here since the police had abandoned it. Cobwebs bloomed like white flowers in every conceivable corner. Cockroaches, ants, and spiders littered the floors. Sherlock looked at the tally marks, frozen forever at thirteen. An unlucky number, though he didn't put much stock in superstition. There was his bed, hanging lonely in the corner. Sherlock closed his eyes and inhaled.

_The ache of his empty stomach. The sting of apathy. Moriarty's laugh. Desperation. Hunger. Thirst. Weakness. Injury. Alcohol. Women. Rose. An offer almost impossible to refuse. Delicious food meant to tempt—it worked! Oh, how it worked! Rough tongue crosses dry lips. Eyes close in weary hunger. Hunger for more than just food—hunger for sleep and home and hygiene and proper medical treatment. Hunger to see John, hunger to be bored. _

_And then Moriarty with his crocodile tears. A nasty little spider who's got all eight of his feet in every circle. And a mind trapped inside a body far too weak and hungry, tired and injured, to get a handle on his mad ways. Madman. _

Sherlock exhaled and opened his eyes. _It's a dangerous game. And I can't get behind._ Impala stood motionless by his side, shivering, hugging herself for warmth. Without thinking, he removed his sweatshirt and gave it to her, chomping down hard on his lower lip as the cold air nipped at his exposed arms and seeped through his sweat-soaked tee shirt. Impala chuckled and put it on, following Sherlock tentatively as the man walked over to the far wall, his hands touching the dark concrete.

_Agony. He'd never been in __**this**__ much pain before. His arms screamed at him, the muscles strained from being chained to the wall. His leg muscles ached from being so tense against the blows. His vision was beginning to blur. He could feel his ribs on every painful inhale. He was __**weak**__, and unbearably so. His stomach was churning and crunching at nothing, his sparse fat stores already used up on the case. Nonexistent toast with melty, slightly salty butter and a single noodle the only nourishment keeping him going. That, and a little water, a (very much hated) mouthful of beer. _

_The thin black horsewhip rises again, held in a powerful, feminine hand. As it strikes, the pain slices through his body like the sting of a needle pressing into skin. The wound is cold at first, but then warms when his blood seeps out, latching happily to the fabric on his shirt as he breathes. He is lightheaded, a thousand miles away, and as the whip descends again, the pain is distant—a memory, a dream he deleted. So insignificant. _

_He doesn't know where he is, lost inside that gigantic mind palace of his. Part of him is sitting down at the elegant dining table where no one ever dines, eyes on a massive feast where the food is prepared exactly as it would be in real life. Soft, steaming roast lamb, multiple bowls of different sorts of pasta with butter and cheese and a hint of basil—long, thin noodles, long, thick noodles, short, stumpy noodles, noodles that look like bowties, noodles that look like shells, and there's so many that the steam hovering over all of them clouds his mind. Of course there must be salad and tea and just half a glass of fine red wine with the best Cambridge cheese. And then, there must be dessert. Decadent chocolate cakes with icing sweet enough to make one delightfully sick, soft, crumbly pastries, Bakewell tarts with a soft coating of fondant, still warm from the oven, cookies appropriately warm, chocolate centers appreciatively gooey. And inside his mind somewhere, he is sure he is devouring every last bite. His stomach gives a hollow-sounding rumble in protest._

_But part of himself—perhaps most of it—is lost in endless files of information, swirling around his head as if he's caught in a snowstorm. He can't think—he really couldn't focus if he tried. His transport's needs are screaming at him. Food, water, sleep, medical attention, painkillers. His head hurts, so he just resigns himself to the torture, feeling the burn of tears as the whip continues to punish without mercy._

Sherlock felt lightheaded just from remembering, and his chest began to ache, the ghost of the pain returning to him without warning or comment. He presses a hand to his chest to keep the memories inside the darkest corner of his mind palace where they belong as he searches for clues to Moriarty's plans, things the police undoubtedly missed and which he was too far gone to look for himself. He cursed his bloody transport for being so weak, deciding he'd be glad to fast again, to never be dependent upon food in his life.

The hunger pangs, once a faraway problem when he was dancing with the Widows, seemed to take offense to his thoughts and multiplied tenfold. Sherlock thought of roast lamb—something he hadn't eaten in too long a time—and felt dizzy.

No. He _needed_ to eat right now. At least for a month, maybe longer. His transport was too weak as it was. He needed it in proper working order.

Pity this Moriarty business couldn't wait.

Sherlock sighed, inhaling the scent of damp. This club operation didn't seem dangerous. There appeared to be no ulterior motive, except…

Money. _Of course_! Sherlock nearly slapped himself for being so stupid. Moriarty needed _funds_!

Well, this couldn't be allowed to happen.

Sherlock pulled Impala up the stairs. "We need to get you out of here."

"I can't leave!" Impala protested. "This is all I have!"

"Don't worry, I'll take care of it." Sherlock found his voice getting louder as they headed towards the music. "It won't be tonight. It can't be. But tomorrow, The Spider's Nest will be no more." Not saying anything else, he kissed her once for the sake of keeping up appearances, took back his sweatshirt with a sardonic smile, and darted out the main entrance.

He lifted his hand and called out: "Taxi!"

Things were going to get a little bit illegal. It was best if he didn't let Scotland Yard in on this one.

_Sorry for the hiatus! I have to be in the right mood to write Moriarty. Otherwise, he gets all…not-Moriarty. I'm still hinting at MorMor since I can, but I promise that nothing will happen. This isn't a sexual story and includes NO PAIRINGS. So, that means no Johnlock, just because people have expressed concern._

_I eat reviews like candy. Thank you.-SH_


	16. The Smoke that Sets the House on Fire

_**Chapter 16: The Smoke that Sets the House on Fire**_

_Unfortunately, the site I was using for Shakespearian phrases has disappeared. So, I'm just going to use random literary phrases that I think are cool from now on. _

Vulcan walked casually into the club, swinging a leather bag at his heels. He weaved through dancing couples until he got to the wall and then stuck to it, using it as a guide. It was almost impossible to focus through the dizzy lights spinning on the floor and the blinding strobes, but eventually, he made it to his target.

The basement door was still unlocked. Vulcan pried it open as carefully as he could and went down the stairs in silence. The wave of bass had long ago dissipated, so his ears were ringing from lack of noise. Bending down, he put the leather case on the floor and knelt. He opened the flap at the top and looked at what was inside.

Funny are the events that lead us up to events we never would have dreamed in partaking in.

The clock turns back to that morning in Baker Street.

When John woke up, he found that Sherlock had not slept well. The man paced in an irritated manner the length of the flat, back and forth and back again, mumbling to himself and twisting his fingers in his curls. At length, he sat quietly on the couch and at John's query for breakfast declined sweetly. "I can't spare the energy for digestion." Sherlock replied. "I must prepare. We have a lot of work ahead of us tonight."

We. John was hopeful at his pronoun use. It helped to undo the nervous knot that had begun to form in his chest and sink into his stomach once he heard Sherlock decline food. The doctor need not of worried, for Sherlock was famished enough by lunchtime, and ate heartily. But he did not explain his plans, and John did not question him. He knew by now to let Sherlock be. All in good time.

It was eight o'clock, then, when John was first told.

Sherlock, dressed as Raven without the makeup and contacts, swept into the room with all the gracefulness of a bird of prey. He brought with him a miniature version of a suitcase-black silk with silver tips and a blood red handle of imitation crocodile-as well as a pile of clothes. These he threw at John. "Get changed into that. Your ammunition boots will do."

John looked curiously at the outfit. The tee shirt was all black with a flaming skull in dark grey rising from the bottom, like the design for the American movie _Jaws_. The pants were the same deep red as the handle, but with a camouflage print and of the same tight fit as Sherlock's.

John leaned forward in his chair to address the detective, who had sprawled himself on the couch like a ragdoll and was currently fiddling with what looked like lipstick and thinking hard. "Sherlock," he began, but the detective held up a hand to stop him.

"You wanted to help me," Sherlock replied smoothly, and with a voice that boded no argument, without looking at him. "Help by getting changed into those clothes. Quickly."

"I'm not sure the pants will flatter me." John frowned. "And I'm not wearing lipstick."

"Fine. That makes things easier for me, anyway. I never could do lips for someone else." Sherlock mushed his own together, as John had seen girlfriends of his do to even out their lipstick.

John sighed and went to go change into the clothes Sherlock had bought for him. The shirt was a little tight in the shoulders, but he supposed that was the point of it—he was relieved to see he still had muscles—and the pants were not quite as unflattering as he imagined. It showed him that his thighs were getting a little flabby, but it did wonders accentuating his calves. He didn't look like himself at all, which, considering Sherlock's get-up, was likely the point. He dusted off his army boots, slipped them on, and returned downstairs.

Sherlock sat up when he came in and nodded appreciatively. "Oh, good. They fit. I was wondering if I was a bit off on your measurements. Can you move all right?"

John nodded. "Remind me never to wear skinny jeans again. They look much better on you."

Sherlock laughed. "Duly noted, captain." He parodied a salute and picked up the small suitcase. "Time for makeup! Sit." He gestured John's chair, part of which was covered in a towel.

"_Makeup_?" John must have looked positively scandalized, for Sherlock laughed again.

"Just a bit more than I myself do, since I didn't order a mask for you. You don't have the height advantage I do, anyway, and one of the Widows would get your attention while the other would slip it off. No, no. Can't run the risk of that." He set the suitcase on the mantelpiece and opened it. Inside was a basic makeup kit.

"Please tell me your not doing mascara."

"Eye liner and eye shadow only, though different colors of the latter." Sherlock knelt by the chair. John heard his knees crack as he shifted his weight. "Close your eyes and relax," he said, setting a small circular container on his thigh and unscrewing the top. In his other hand, he held a makeup brush. "Close your eyes and relax, but keep your head as still as you can." There was a moment when he could feel Sherlock's breath on his face, and then a soft pressure on his eyes. He couldn't help jerking away from it. Sherlock tsked and grabbed his chin to hold him in place. "Still. Relax. It will feel odd at first." His voice was hard and scolding, but not impatient. John lay still and let him work.

After what seemed like hours, he was allowed to open his eyes. Sherlock had a small compact mirror in front of him.

John stared. Sherlock beamed.

"Good?"

"Sherlock…" John fought the urge to touch the fresh makeup. He wasn't looking at John Watson in the mirror.

The character he was to become (no name, as of yet) was…dark, to say the least. His blue eyes were framed by deep black eye shadow, the under of his eyes swathed liberally with black eye liner, so he looked almost tired. At the edge of the black, there was a flicker of flame-in reality, a combination of red and orange combined to look like fire burning. Really, the eyeliner tapered off into the flame quite nicely. John gasped. "The film industry lost a fine makeup artist."

Sherlock withdrew the mirror and rubbed his hands together nervously. "You will be Gene Cook, alias Vulcan. Here." He reached back and handed John ID. John glanced at it and nodded. "You will take an incendiary bomb, carried in this bag," he lifted a leather bag off one of the chairs in the flat to indicate it, "to the basement. When you are ready, text me. I need to get Impala out of that club," he sighed, looking at his masked face in the mirror. "I really shall miss Raven."

"What?" John looked quizzically at him.

"Oh, yes. Well, after tonight," Sherlock put his hands in his pockets, dragging the waist down over his hips, revealing silk boxers. "Vulcan will be an arsonist, Raven a kidnapper. We must dispose of the clothing immediately, likely by burning or dumped into the Thames. I'm happier to burn them, seeing as the clothes without a body will be suspicious, even for the Thames." He rocked on his feet a moment, and then pushed up the mask. "I've got to put my contacts in and do my makeup. Make us dinner, would you? I'm famished." He set to work immediately.

John chuckled and went off to make pasta. It didn't really occur to him then what this latest adventure might mean.

It was only then, in the basement, practically wearing the skin of another man, that the weight of the situation came crashing down on John. He'd ended up having to force himself to eat just half of the pasta he'd prepared for them, too alight with excited nerves to manage on a full stomach. Sherlock ate more than usual, and the shirt, it seemed, fit him better after dinner than before. After thirty minutes to allow for digestion and the brushing of teeth, they were off. Sherlock decided that they should arrive in separate cabs, but that Raven and Vulcan should know each other, so they had taken separate cabs, but greeted each other upon Raven's arrival, Vulcan having left first.

Anyway.

Vulcan looked away from the contents of the bag and scanned the room at large. It smelled heavily of disinfectant, but he recognized it.

This was where Sherlock had been kept. There were chains still hanging on the wall…oh, God, what had been done down here? And there was only one reason to clean it.

John remembered how much it had stank of an uncomfortable human when they first arrived to rescue Sherlock. And it was _still_ bloody cold and damp down here. He couldn't think about it anymore. He would throw up just from the memory of seeing his best friend wasting away before his eyes in this awful place.

Vulcan's hands moved quickly to assemble the bomb. He took his lighter from his pocket in preparation and backed up towards the stairs. He had to throw the lighter into the bag and make a run for it. Within thirty seconds, the entire basement would be in flames. He hoped. There was cobblestone everywhere, and it was so damp…

Stop. Stop doubting Sherlock. Vulcan frantically texted Raven.

Raven giggled behind his drink, holding possessively onto Impala at his side, perhaps groping a little too much for them to be just friends. His phone vibrated in his pocket. Raven excused himself from the conversation with other clubbers to answer his text.

_Bomb in place and ready._

_Run.-SH_

Raven grabbed Impala and began kissing her hard. Impala melted into him instantly and then led him to her room.

While the smoke alarms were going off and everyone was panicking, no one took notice of a short blonde man in red trousers, a tall masked bloke, and a little Indian girl running out of the back entrance.

Sherlock scooped up Impala and ran several steps ahead, John following close behind, until they reached an alley far enough away and were able to catch their breath. A black car pulled up and idled by the side of the road. Sherlock took a deep breath, his heart still hammering at his chest, and grabbed Impala's shoulders.

"I've arranged for you to go to America. My brother, Mycroft, has arranged for you to live with a host family until you are of age. You'll be safe, you'll have a new identity, and Moriarty will not find you."

Impala nodded, smiling. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock smirked and ruffled her hair. "Call me 'Sherlock,' all right? Take care, Minali." The girl went off to the black car.

John looked at Sherlock. "What now?"

Sherlock watched the car drive away and then melted against the wall. "Green bin bag to the left has our change of clothes in it." He reached into his pocket for his green lighter, the last remnant of a dead habit. "Once we change, we'll burn these."

"Right." John ripped open the bag and tossed Sherlock's clothes at him. "I hope they don't smell too much like plastic."

Sherlock snorted at that. "I thought you'd be worried for your sexuality, us stripping in a dark alley. People might talk."

"People do little else," John parroted back.

They undressed and dressed again quickly, giggling like schoolchildren from the lingering adrenaline. Sherlock lit the lighter and meticulously burned all their clothes. Satisfied, he pocketed the fighter again and smoothed down his hair. "Ugh. I hate putting product in my hair." He took away his fingers, rubbing them together with disgust.

"You're not the one with bloody eye shadow all over his face."

"Your fault. I told you not to touch it." Sherlock handed over a wipe. "Right. Get cleaned up and we'll go home." He yawned. "I'm exhausted. It takes a lot of effort to pretend to be sexually interested."

John elbowed him in the ribs. "Sure it's got nothing to do with eating enough pasta for both of us?"

Sherlock shoved him back. "Stop it. I _was_ in captivity for twenty days."

John smiled, a bit sadly. "I didn't mean it like that, Sherlock. I—"

Sherlock squeezed his shoulder. "I understand." He stretched and stepped out into the street. "Too bad I don't have my coat." He wrapped his arms around himself and shivered as he called a cab.

"Damn thing would've taken up the whole bin bag." John muttered-but-didn't as a cab drove up.

"It would not've!" Sherlock straightened up, offended. "I would've gotten it its own bag."

John laughed and shoved Sherlock into the taxi. Then he got in, too, and they headed home.

_Sorry it took so long to get this up! I got distracted by writer's block and TUMBLR, oh horrid tumblr. It's a life-ruiner, it is._

_I have some fics up on my secondary tumblr daughterofholmes, if anyone's interested in what I've been doing in the interim. Hopefully, though, I'll get some updates in for Recovering Sherlock, too._

_Peace!_

_-SH_


	17. Stout Appetites

_**Chapter 17: Stout Appetites**_

There was silence in the cab for some time, and then John began to laugh nervously.

Sherlock looked over at him, concern and confusion lighting up the center of his eyes. "What?"

"That," John laughed, "that was ridiculous!" He sighed, tilting his head back. "Ah, I admire you, Sherlock. I don't think I could do any of this on an empty stomach."

Sherlock smirked and leaned back as well. "As of my capture, I can't, either." There was silence, then the detective turned to look at his friend. "You're hungry."

"_Starving_," John admitted.

Sherlock nodded in confirmation. "Yes. I noticed you didn't eat as much."

"Nerves," John replied. "I was so taut, so ready for action, that I couldn't bring myself to eat that much." He looked over at Sherlock. "That must be how you usually feel."

The detective yawned. "Something like that. Dinner is waiting at home."

"How do you know?"

"I asked Mrs. Hudson to cook us some. It will probably be a cold meal. Sandwiches, most likely."

"Better for us than takeaway."

Sherlock chuckled.

John was almost expecting Sherlock to have lied about the sandwiches, so he was presently surprised that, not only were there multiple sandwiches waiting for them, but they were warm. John's stomach growled and he sat eagerly at the table, pulling a sandwich towards him.

Sherlock dove into the fridge. "Fancy a beer?"

"Love one, thanks," John accepted the beer bottle from Sherlock and necked it down. "Aren't you going to?"

Sherlock shook his head, necking down the soda he held in his hand. "I'm actually cold; I'm making tea. And besides," he added, "I drank at the club. And I actually have very low alcohol tolerance, so…"

"Oh." John swallowed his beer nervously.

"Don't feel self-conscious, John," Sherlock reassured him, sitting down across from him and grabbing a sandwich. "You didn't drink at all while we were there, and I think you have a better handle on alcohol than I do. Your weight is in your favor."

"Only think?" John teased, finishing off his first sandwich and reaching for another. The ham was spicy and good and the cheese was warm and gooey, just they way he liked it. "And should I be insulted?"

Sherlock snorted into his drink. "Not at all. Sometimes, I envy those with better weights. Makes undercover drinking go smoother."

"I'd imagine."

Silence reigned as the two men filled their stomachs. When the plate was empty of all but crumbs, Sherlock belched and lay back contentedly. "Mmm, I feel better now."

John patted his stomach. "I agree. Mrs. Hudson is a saint."

"The best," Sherlock agreed, stretching.

John stretched as well and looked across at the detective, sprawled in his chair and looking very sleepy and content indeed. It was the most relaxed John had seen Sherlock in days. "So, does this mean Moriarty's down for the count?"

"For now, at least," Sherlock allowed, backhanding a yawn. "I can afford, at least, to rest up."

"Yer, I imagine you need it." John chuckled. "It'll feel good to sit around on your arse, I think."

"God yes," Sherlock agreed. "I'm exhausted." The doctor could only imagine. He was sure that, even at his most sleep-deprived in the army, he hadn't come close to Sherlock's overworked condition. Truthfully, Sherlock looked ready to crash. The detective looked up from his twiddling hands and stared hesitantly at John. Then, he asked, rather timidly, "John, would you…tend to me again?"

"Hmm?" John was feeling sleepy himself, unable to think straight.

Sherlock's face grew red, as if he was afraid of what he was about to ask. "Would you…you know…treat me like a patient? Make me tea and food and bring me things so I don't have to leave the sofa, and leave the telly on some science program so I can fall asleep, and such."

John was sincerely touched that Sherlock had appreciated his ministrations. "Of course I will, Sherlock. I'd be happy to."

"I'll ask nicely," Sherlock added to sweeten the deal. "It might make your duties more enjoyable."

John laughed. "I think if you started saying 'please' all the time, I'd begin to wonder what's wrong with you."

Sherlock laughed, too, until he was interrupted by a yawn. He stood up, then. "I'm off to bed."

"Yer, I think I'll turn in, too. G'night, Sherlock."

"Good night, John."

_Arrrgh, I suck. Actually, these chapters are going to suck because I know what is supposed to happen…but I need to build up to it, and I'm not sure how to do that. Working on it._

_Also, I should note that I intended this universe as an alternate storyline to "The Great Game," even if some of the quotes and stuff are from later.-SH_


End file.
